University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


TOTE-ROAD  AND  TRAIL 


It's  chuck  in  the  day  and  a  bunk  in  the  night 


TOTE-ROAD  AND 
TRAIL 

Ballads  of  the  Lumberjack 


By 

DOUGLAS  MALLOCH 


ILLUSTRATED  IN  FULL  COLOR  BY 

OLIVER  KEMP 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1917 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWOHTH    &    CO. 

BOOK  MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,   N.  Y. 


TO  MY  WIFE 

Had  heaven  a  star,  a  single  star, 

A  solitary  lamp, 
One  beacon-light  to  shine  afar 

And  lead  me  back  to  camp — 
That  one  sure  star  would  bring  me  to 
The  camp,  the  waiting  fire,  and  you. 

Had  life  but  one,  a  single  one, 

But  you,  unchanging  still, 
However  far  my  feet  might  run 

Down  valley  or  up  hill — 
That  one  true  heart,  the  heart  of  you, 
In  good  or  ill  would  bring  me  through. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

IT'S  CHUCK  IN  THE  DAY  AND  A  BUNK  IN  THE 
NIGHT Frontispiece 

WHILE  Us  POOR  SKATES  IN  REGIONS  COOL  Go  OUT  AN* 
MAKE  His  MONEY 28 

AN*  EV'RY  TIME  You  TURN  A  BEND  THE  NEXT  BEND 
LOOKS  THE  BEST 56 

FOR  THERE  ARE  THE  WOODS  TO  PEOPLE,  AND  THERE  Is 
THE  TRAIL  TO  MAKE    ..,.'•> 88 

I'D  LIKE  TO  JUST  COME  WALKIN'  IN  AN'  FIND  You  ALL 
A-SETTIN'  HERE      !»s •-.'• 120 

WORKED  A  PEAVEY,  PULLED  A  SAW,  RODE  THE  RIVER  IN  A 
THAW       ,    .     *    *  ^    V 156 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AFTERWARD        164 

ASPEN,  THE 131 

BAD  MAN,  THE 165 

BEHIND  A  SPIRE 132 

BREAKUP,  THE 53 

CALL  Us,  AMERICA 45 

CALLING  UP  THE  CREW 3 

CAMP  IN  THE  WOODS  WITH  A  FRIEND,  A 123 

CHAUDIERE • 69 

CHRISTELLA •. 78 

CHRISTINA    ....*. 110 

CRUISE,  THE     ...     .     *     .    V ^ •'..>.  -. :•.     ...  170 

DAY,  A .     .     ......-, 90 

DISCOVERY «     •  >.   ,.»•'*     •     .  139 

FALL,  THE    ......     *..  v  .  ^  -..    .    -,  ..     .     .  15 

FORTY      .-..,..,  v,  v  v,:  V,V'  •     •  134 

FUNGI .,. ;. "'  . ". '.    + .  .. -  •  .  88 

GREATER  THE  HEART,  THE     .     .     .'    .'    *     .     .     ,    v    .  :  vft 

HAIR  OF  THE  DOG,  THE *    *    «   .*    -  43 

HERO  MEDDLERS,  THE      .     ;  /.     .    ~ .'...»-'  '-*    *•  •  . /'*•    •  67 

His  EYES     ....    w     .     .     ."•'«.    *- '-     .     v     .  125 

HOLY  GROUND   .     .     .     .     .     «     .    -    ..     *•(    •     •     •     •  95 

IF  FORTUNE  CAME      ..     .     ,     v   >.   r.  •  •     <,,.     .     .     .  119 

IN  TOWN  ON  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE      .,    ..    *    ^    '^'    ...  36 

INTERCESSION     .   :.   .:.    >     ,f  .^:  .«    ..  -^  .  +  '  .     .     .     .  97 

INTERPRETERS     , 94 

IRISH,  THE 76 

JUST  ALIVE 49 


CONTENTS-Continued 

PAGE 

KEEP  YOUR  EARS  AHEAD 149 

LOAFER,  THE 14 

LOOK  BACK,  A 168 

LOVE  OF  A  MAN,  THE 12 

MAN  WHO  ALWAYS  WON,  THE 135 

MAN  WHO  COULD  PLAY,  THE 86 

MAN'S  ROAD,  THE 107 

NIGHT  LIKE  THIS,  A 100 

OH,  To  BE  A  GYPSY 30 

ONE 122 

ONE-SPOT,  THE 129 

PILGRIMAGE,  THE 23 

POINT  OF  VIEW,  THE 27 

PRICE,THE >     .     *     ,::*     ^^  72 

PROSPERITY 47 

RECRUIT'S  REQUEST,  THE 159 

RETIRED 153 

SANCTUARY        1 

SEED 81 

SELF-MADE  MAN,  THE 83 

SIGNAL,  THE 75 

SIMPLE  LIFE,  THE , '>- -  33 

STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER  FOREVER,  THE 31 

STONY  BROOK    .     .     , .    ,;  61 

SUPERANNUATED .    •    •  51 

TENDERHEARTED  BILL *     .  58 

THREE  MORNINGS       •  -  •     •  112 

TIMES,  THE 141 


CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

To  A  CHIPMUNK 92 

UNDERGROWTH 106 

UP-RIVER 10 

WEDDING,  THE 161 

WHEN  THE  DRIVE  GOES  DOWN 56 

WIDOWHOOD  OF  DOUBT,  THE 151 

WIDOW-MAKER,  THE 40 

WINNER,  THE  .     ;>  ,* 64 

WOODLAND,  THE 117 

WORK  IN  THE  WOODS,  THE 6 

WORLD,  THE      ,     .     .     . 7 

YOUTH  WHO  WORE  AN  "M,"  THE  18 


TOTE-ROAD  AND  TRAIL 


Tote-Road  and  Trail 


SANCTUARY 

When  some  one  has  slipped  you  the  dirk  in  the  dark, 

When  eyes  that  are  loving  are  lies, 
When  some  one  you  trusted  has  made  you  a  mark, 

And  somehow  the  heart  in  you  dies, 
There's  dirt  for  you,  hurt  for  you,  trouble  enough 

To  shatter  the  faith  of  a  man ; 
But  don't  ever  think  there  is  trouble  so  tough 

That  you  can't  overcome  it — you  can. 

When  living  is  losing  its  flavor  to  you, 

When  worry  is  making  you  old ; 
When  there  is  no  joy  in  the  thing  that  you  do 

Nor  truth  in  the  thing  you  are  told, 
There's  balm  for  you,  calm  for  you,  out  in  the  wild, 

There's  hope  for  you  up  on  the  hill. 
Get  up  in  the  timber  and  play  like  a  child ; 
can  overcome  it — you  will. 


SANCTUARY 

Get  up  in  the  timber ;  the  trail  and  the  trees 

Will  make  you  a  man  in  a  day. 
The  smell  of  the  soil  and  the  breath  of  the  breeze 

Will  blow  all  your  troubles  away. 
There's  pine  for  you,  wine  for  you,  hope  for  you 
there — 

The  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  star — 
If  the  ways  of  the  city  are  not  on  the  square, 

Get  up  in  the  woods — where  they  are. 


CALLING  UP  THE  CREW 

They'll  soon  be  callin'  up  the  crew  to  cut  the  Edwards 

pine; 
You  feel  it  in  the  lungs  of  you,  you  fill  'em  full  of 

wine; 
The  night  is  full  of  piney  smells,  the  perfume  of  the 

North ; 
An'  cold  an'  clear  as  icicles  the  starbeams  glitter  forth. 

They'll  soon  be  callin'  us  to  come ;  they'll  need  us  in  the 
bush — 

The  sturdy  sons  of  Scotia  some,  the  old  Toronto  push, 

The  Frenchman  with  his  shinin'  saw,  the  sons  of  Eng- 
lishmen— 

They'll  need  us  up  the  Ottawa  to  cut  their  pine  again. 

We're  getherin'  at  Wullie's  bar,  we're  settin'  in  the 

sun, 
We're  waitin'   for  the  private   car  the  old   Grand 

Trunk'll  run ; 
We're  tellin'  how  we  spent  our  cash,  an'  braggin'  of 

our  girls, 
Whilst  from  the  dirty  calabash  the  blue  tobacco  curls. 

3 


CALLING  UP  THE  CREW 

But  where  is  Dodson?  In  the  trench.  MacPherson? 
Dardanelles. 

Doret?  Home  fightin'  with  the  French.  The  list  of 
missin'  swells. 

MacCullough  ?  With  the  Princess  Pats.  Gates  ?  Some- 
where on  the  foam. 

Jones?  With  a  bullet  through  his  slats  he's  invalided 
home. 

Carruthers?    Well,  they  think  he's  dead.     They  lost 

him  in  Lorraine; 

Perhaps  a  prisoner  instead ;  he  may  come  back  again. 
An'  James,  the  blue-eyed  Scottish  lad?    In  Flanders, 

under  sod. 
Remember  Hawkins?    Just  as  bad — torpedoed  to  his 

God. 

They'll  soon  be  callin'  up  the  crew  to  cut  the  Edwards 

pine, 
An'  I'll  be  there  my  work  to  do — but  not  some  friends 

of  mine. 
They're  sleepin'  there  in  Belgium,  they  can  not  hear 

the  call 
That  makes  the  other  fellows  come,  the  pine-woods 

an'  it  all. 

I'll  do  my  bit  with  ax  an'  saw,  an',  be  it  pine  or  spruce, 
I'll  put  'em  down  the  Ottawa,  an'  offer  no  excuse. 

4 


CALLING  UP  THE  CREW 

I'll  be  the  last  man  in  at  night,  the  first  man  out  at 

dawn — 
I'll  do  my  work,  an*  do  it  right,  but  all  the  sport  is 

gone. 

An*  for  the  lads  who  died  out  there,  I  wish  that  they 

could  sleep 
Up  where  the  flowin'  waters  wear  their  channel  to  the 

deep. 
An*  for  the  lads  who  suffer  hell  an'  drink  the  cup  of 

war, 
I'll  pray  a  prayer  for  them  as  well,  who  never  prayed 

before. 


THE  WORK  IN  THE  WOODS 

The  work  in  the  woods,  oh,  it's  heavy  the  hurt  of  it, 

The  long  day  of  labor,  the  short  night  of  rest, 
The  camp,  and  the  tramp,  and  the  damp  and  the  dirt 
of  it, 

Afoot  when  the  stars  are  still  out  in  the  west, 
The  sting  of  the  wind,  or  the  snow  and  the  rain  of  it, 

The  cold  sky  if  clear  and  the  wet  sky  if  gray — 
And  yet  there  is  something,  with  all  of  the  pain  of  it, 

That  finds  us  and  coaxes  and  calls  us  away. 

The  work  in  the  woods ! — There  is  something  in  spite 
of  it 

That  pulls  at  the  heart  like  a  sailor  the  sea, 
The  gay  and  the  gray  and  the  day  and  the  night  of  it, 

The  smile  of  the  sun  and  the  sob  of  the  tree ; 
Afar  from  the  forest  you  hear  the  loud  call  of  it, 

Then  what  do  you  care  if  the  labor  be  long? 
For,  somehow  or  other,  you  sort  of  like  all  of  it — 

The  work  and  the  play  and  the  sigh  and  the  song! 


THE  WORLD 

The  woods  world,  the  man's  world,  it  stretches  east 

an'  west, 

A  green  world,  a  new  world,  of  all  the  world  the  best. 
There's  work  there,  an'  play  there,  an'  shadow  there 

an'  sun — 
There's  work  there,  an'  play  there,  an'  sleep  when  you 

are  done. 

The  old  world,  the  whole  world,  is  like  the  world  of 

wood, 

A  big  world,  a  glad  world,  an'  glorious  an*  good. 
There's   life   there,   there's   love   there,   enough    for 

ev'ry  one — 
There's  work  there,  an'  play  there,  an'  sleep  when  you 

are  done. 


THE  GREATER  THE  HEART 

The  man  with  an  ax, 

The  lad  with  a  saw, 
Learn  numerous  facts 

Of  natural  law. 
A  thing  you  will  see 

As  you  work  at  your  art : 
The  older'  the  tree, 

The  greater  the  heart. 

There  are  sorrow  and  storm 

As  the  forest  grows  old ; 
There  are  Summers  too  warm, 

There  are  Winters  too  cold. 
Gray  the  Autumn  may  be 

And  the  sun  may  depart — 
But  the  older  the  tree, 

The  greater  the  heart. 

Grow  old  like  the  pine 

Through  the  smiles  and  the  tears, 
Growing  better,  like  wine, 

With  the  passing  of  years ; 

8 


THE  GREATER  THE  HEART 

Let  them  say,  if  they  can, 
When  from  life  you  depart, 

"The  older  the  man, 
The  greater  the  heart!" 


UP-RIVER 

Our  way  to  camp  we  used  to  drive 

Along  about  this  time  of  year. 
A  man  felt  good  to  be  alive 

When  it  come  time  again  to  steer 
Up-river  way.    We'd  top  the  hill 

An*  then  the  town  would  drop  from  sight 
An'  all  the  night  got  calm  an'  still 

An'  all  the  world  got  pure  an'  white. 

You  know,  when  you  let  loose  of  men 

An'  git  up  there  among  the  trees, 
You  slip  right  back  to  God  again 

An'  you're  a  kid  on  bended  knees. 
Then  things  you  thought  you  had  forgot 

Come  back  to  you  by  jump  an'  leap ; 
You  find  yourself,  as  like  as  not, 

Repeatin'  "Lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

There  ain't  no  mystery  in  life, 

There's  nothin'  you  don't  understand, 

An'  oldtime  scraps  an'  oldtime  strife 
Look  foolish  in  that  silent  land. 

10 


UP-RIVER 

The  careless  doubt,  the  wonder,  cease, 
The  way  is  clear  that  once  was  dim : 

You  know  there  is  a  Prince  of  Peace 
An'  hunger  to  git  back  to  him. 


11 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  MAN 

The  love  of  a  woman  is  sweet ; 

In  life  I  have  fondled  a  few, 
Have  felt  the  red  blood  as  it  beat 

The  uttermost  arteries  through. 
Yet  God  in  His  wisdom  divine, 

Yet  God  in  His  infinite  plan, 
Made  nothing  as  holy  and  fine 

As  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  man. 

There  was  one  with  the  dark  in  her  hair, 

There  was  one  with  the  dawn  in  her  eyes, 
There  was  one  who  had  kisses  to  spare — 

For  never  a  memory  dies. 
But,  maids,  you  were  nothing  but  maids ; 

You  passed,  as  the  waters  that  ran. 
For  what  are  the  angels  or  jades 

By  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  man? 

The  love  of  a  woman  is  warm, 
Her  kisses  as  hot  as  the  South, 

And  glorious  battle  to  storm 
The  road  to  her  amorous  mouth. 

12 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  MAN 

But  what  is  the  nectar  you  drink, 
The  fragile  and  beautiful  span, 

By  one  indestructible  link, 
The  love  of  a  man  for  a  man? 

For  when  she  has  thrown  you  aside, 

Has  passed  from  embraces  and  sight, 
And  all  of  the  noonday  has  died 

And  left  but  the  stars  and  the  night, 
You  feel  on  your  shoulder  a  hand, 

For  comfort  you  come  where  you  can, 
And  deep  in  your  heart  understand 

The  love  of  a  man  for  a  man. 

He'll  go  with  you  over  the  trail, 

The  trail  that  is  lonesome  and  long ; 
His  faith  will  not  falter  nor  fail, 

Nor  falter  the  lilt  of  his  song. 
He  knows  both  your  soul  and  your  sins, 

And  does  not  too  carefully  scan. 
The  highway  to  Heaven  begins 

With  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  man. 


13 


THE  LOAFER 

You  can  always  tell  a  loafer,  if  there's  loafin'  in  the 

crew; 

You  can  always  tell  a  loafer,  for  he  has  so  much  to  do : 
When  the  men  are  in  the  maintop  he  is  f  ussin'  with  a 

jib; 
On  the  drive  he's  always  lookin'  for  a  chance  away  to 

snib; 
In  the  woods  the  smallest  timber  is  the  timber  he  will 

find; 
In  the  yard  the  twelve-by-twenty  is  the  kind  he  leaves 

behind. 
He  will  fuss  an*  he  will  fiddle  huntin'  up  the  softest 

snap: 

Life  is  one  eternal  treadmill  for  the  take-it-easy  chap. 
Yes,  it  takes  a  lot  of  trouble  skippin'  labor  day  by  day ; 
For  a  fellah  has  to  figger  how  to  dodge  it  all  the  way. 
On  the  drive  or  in  the  timber,  in  the  mill  or  in  the  yard, 
You  can  always  tell  a  loafer,  'cause  he  works  so  bloom- 
in'  hard. 


14 


THE  FALL 

The  nights  are  colder  than  they  was, 
The  days  are  shorter,  too; 

The  starry  light 

Shines  out  to-night 
From  skies  of  deeper  blue. 
The  green  that  lies  along  the  hills 
Is  turning  brown  an*  sear — 

Yet  I  don't  need 

No  signs  to  read 
To  know  the  time  o'  year. 

An*  I  don't  need  no  almanac 
To  tell  what  time  it  is, 

No  Autumn  haze 

An*  shorter  days 
An*  all  that  kind  of  biz. 
Lord !  Don't  I  know  the  Fall  is  here 
When  loud  the  nightwind  groans  ? 

Lord !  Don't  I  know 

The  season  though  ? — 
I  feel  it  in  my  bones. 

IS 


THE  FALL 

I'm  tuggin'  at  this  city  leash 

Like  forty-seven  dawgs; 
I'm  wishin'  for 
The  shanty  floor, 

The  timber  an'  the  lawgs. 
I'm  longin'  for  the  wanigan, 

The  tote-road  an'  it  all- 
Lord  !  Can't  the  jacks 
Who  swing  the  ax 

Remember  when  it's  Fall? 

A  little  more  an'  it  will  snow 
Up  in  the  woods  again ; 

A  little  more 

The  wind'll  roar, 
A  little  more  an'  then 
In  Michigan  the  nights  will  be 
All  sky  an'  moon  an'  stars — 

An'  then  I'll  pack 

A  little  snack 
An'  hike  to  beat  the  cars. 

The  woods  they  call  you  in  the  Spring 
When  days  are  warm  an'  fair, 

When  robins  sing 

An'  blossoms  fling 
Their  perfume  on  the  air. 

16 


THE  FALL 

They  call  to  you  in  Summertime 
When  in  the  town  you  sweat, 
But  in  the  Fall 
Oh,  then  they  call, 
They  call  you  louder  yet. 

Give  me  the  old  October  woods 
When  leaves  are  turnin'  brown ; 

The  smell  o'  pine 

Is  finer  wine 
Than  any  in  the  town. 
Give  me  the  old  December  snow 
That  turns  the  world  to  white 

Up  there  in  Mich. — 

Oh,  Lord,  I  wish 
That  I  was  there  to-night! 


17 


THE  YOUTH  WHO  WORE  AN  "M" 

He  was  the  rawest  tenderfoot  that  ever  pulled  the 

briar, 

A  rookey  an*  an  amachure,  a  dude  an*  all  of  that; 
But  we  was  short  of  sawyers,  an'  the  head  push  had  to 

hire 
'Most  anything  that  happened  'round  the  place  to 

hang  its  hat. 

He  was  a  sort  of  rah-rah  boy,  who  wore  a  fancy  lid, 
With  blue  an*  yellah  ribbons  in  a  bow-knot  on  the 

brim, 
An*  pants  that  looked  a  size  or  more  too  big  for  such 

a  kid — 
If  Nature  ever  made  a  dub,  it  certainly  was  him. 

We  made  it  just  as  pleasant  for  His  Dudelets  as  we 

could : 

We  tossed  him  in  a  blanket  an*  did  other  little  things ; 
We  set  a  jumper  on  him,  an*  the  Frenchman  soaked 

him  good; 
We  learnt  him  penny  ante  where  the  deuces  beat  the 

kings. 

He  didn't  git  discouraged  an*  he  stuck  right  on  the 
job — 

18 


THE  YOUTH  WHO  WORE  AN  "M" 

He  said  he  got  it  harder  when  they  took  him  in  the 

"frat." 
We  didn't  ketch  his  meaning  but  we  knew  he  was  a 

lob 

(That  is,  until  Thanksgiving  but  things   changed 
some  after  that). 

It  bein'  of  a  holiday,  we  jumped  the  bloomin'  camp 
An'  mootched  it  to  the  city,  there  to  give  our  proper 

thanks ; 

We  took  the  dude  along  with  us  upon  that  jolly  tramp 
To  be  the  central  figger  in   some  harmless   little 

pranks. 

Recollect  that  little  barroom  in  the  hotel  on  the  hill? 
It  was  there  the  party  gethered  for  the  doin's  of  the 

day; 

An*  we  started  in  with  vigor  our  respective  hides  to  fill 
With  all  the  burnin'  redeye  that  the  gang  could  put 
away. 

When  the  stuff  was  flowin*  freely,  some  one  spotted 

Mr.  Dude 
An*  he  dragged  him  to  the  region  where  the  merry 

glasses  clink, 

An*  he  ast  him,  in  a  manner  that  perhaps  was  some- 
what rude, 

If,  upon  this  glad  occasion,  he  would  ruther  fight  or 
drink. 

19 


THE  YOUTH  WHO  WORE  AN  "M" 

His  Dudelets  kind  of  trembled  when  they  offered  him 

"the  same"— 
His  face  was  really  funny,  'twas  so  solemn-like  an* 

white — 
But  he  turned  to  one  that  called  him  by  a  certain  ugly 

name 

An'  remarked  in  language  pleasant  that  he  guessed 
he'd  ruther  fight. 

It  wasn't  fair  an'  proper  for  us  all  to  take  a  hand, 
But  that  challenge  meant  a  lickin',  if  a  challenge  ever 

did. 

We  proceeded  in  a  body  then  to  make  him  understand 

That  a  little  more  politeness  was  expected  of  a  kid. 

But  he  didn't  put  his  dukes  up  an'  he  didn't  shed  his 

coat — 
He  just  sort  of  hunched  his  shoulders  an'  he  shouted 

"U-rah-rah!" 
Then,  with  both  his  arms  wide  open,  through  the  air 

I  seen  him  float, 

An'  he  struck  me  in  the  stomach  while  I  covered  up 
my  jaw. 

In  the  very  farthest  corner  there  we  landed  in  a  heap — 
"First  down !"  was  all  he  hollered,  "first  down,  an' 

four  to  gain !" 

Then  he  mixed  with  Mr.  Murphy,  an'  he  put  the  Mick 
to  sleep 

20 


THE  YOUTH  WHO  WORE  AN  "M" 

When  ag'inst  the  bar  he  slammed  him  in  a  way  that 

give  him  pain. 

"Second  down !"  he  yelled,  "an'  touchdown !"    Then 
he  straightened  up  a  bit, 

When  the  Swede  come  swingin*  at  him  with  hot  an- 
ger in  his  soul, 

An1  he  stuck  his  toe  out  forward  an'  the  Svenska's  mug 
he  hit 

As  he  turned  to  grapple  Frenchy,  while  he  yelled, 
"Rah,  rah!    A  goal!" 

But  there  come  some  reinforcements  from  the  man  be- 
hind the  bar — 
With  a  mallet  in  his  flippers  Mr.  Barkeep  joined  the 

fray; 

With  a  brotherly  intention  Johnny's  cranium  to  jar 
An'  no  word  of  explanation,  at  his  skull  he  blazed 

away. 
Then  I  knew  'twas  all  for  Johnny,  that  the  crack  would 

make  him  sick, 
When  the  barkeep  swung  his  hammer  on  our  darlin' 

angel  child. 

It  took  him  in  the  forehead  like  half  a  thousan'  brick — 
But  that  kid,  would  you  believe  it?  why,  he  just 
looked  up  an'  smiled ! 

21 


THE  YOUTH  WHO  WORE  AN  "M" 

Then  he  "kicked  a  goal  from  placement,"  made  a 

"touchdown"  more,  or  two. 

(At  least  he  so  announced  it  ev'ry  time  he  let  a  yell)  ; 
In  the  corner  of  the  barroom  he  piled  up  that  fightin' 

crew 
An',  to  sort  of  cap  the  climax,  put  the  barkeep  there 

as  well. 
When  he  thought  they  had  sufficient  then  he  showed 

the  boys  his  "M," 
An'  explained  the  Yost  "formations"  an'  just  how 

the  thing  occurred ; 
To  drink  a  toast  to  "Michigan"  he  invited  me  an' 

them — 

An',  when  he  ordered  soda  pop,  then  no  one  said  a 
word. 


22 


THE  PILGRIMAGE 

I've  heard  of  a  certain  Mohammed  who  dwelt  in  a  hut 
on  Arabian  sands 

And  every  year  of  his  residence  felt  that  a  duty  he  had 
on  his  hands 

To  make  an  excursion  his  Mecca  to  seek,  a  trip  to  the 
home  of  his  race, 

A  sort  of  original  Home  Coming  Week,  now  so  com- 
mon in  every  place. 

He'd  pack  up  his  duffle,  his  tent  and  his  shrine  and 

would  beat  it  back  home  for  a  spell 
To  see  if  the  cocoanut  harvest  was  fine  and  if  all  of  his 

cousins  were  well. 
This  pilgrimage  habit  grew  rapidly  so  that  it  now  is  the 

regular  thing 
And  every  season  Mohammedans  go  up  to  Mecca  its 

praises  to  sing. 

I  always  have  felt  sort  of  kinship  to  those  who  go 
journey  to  Mecca  afar, 

Though  I  have  no  Koran  concealed  in  my  clothes,  nei- 
ther know  what  Mohammedans  are. 

23 


THE  PILGRIMAGE 

But  every  year  I  am  up  and  away  to  a  Mecca,  a  shrine 

of  my  own, 
That  calls  me  as  loudly  and  as  surely  as  they  who  are 

called  by  a  city  of  stone. 

My  Mecca's  the  woods,  just  the  woods  in  the  Fall, 
when  October  comes  rolling  around — 

The  camp  and  the  river,  the  pine  and  it  all,  when  the 
frost  takes  a-hold  of  the  ground. 

It  isn't  religion  that  gets  me  to  go  and  it  isn't  a  psalm 
or  a  prayer — 

It's  twenty-eight  dollars,  or  thirty  or  so,  they  are  pay- 
ing for  swampers  up  there. 

It's  chuck  in  the  day  and  a  bunk  in  the  night  and  the 

stake  when  we  quit  in  the  Spring 
That  coaxes  me  northward  to  work  and  to  fight — only 

these  are  the  why  of  the  thing. 
The  folks  in  the  East  go  to  Mecca  to  lay  in  a  new  stock 

of  faith  for  the  year, 
But  I,  I  go  up  to  my  Mecca  for  pay — when  I'm  busted, 

to  get  in  the  clear. 

I  guess  that's  the  way  of  the  East  and  the  West,  it's 

the  way  of  the  new  and  the  old, 
That  they  are  content  on  religion  to  rest,  while  we 

Yankees  are  out  for  the  gold. 

24 


THE  PILGRIMAGE 

You  couldn't  get  Yankees  to  go  on  a  hike  up  to  any 

Mohammedan  shrine, 
But  offer  them  thirty  a  month  and  they'll  strike  for  the 

land  of  the  hemlock  and  pine. 

They  say  that  we  worship  the  dollar  too  much,  we  are 

crazy  for  riches,  they  say; 
They  say  we  are  worse  than  the  Scotch  or  the  Dutch, 

that  it's  quite  the  American  way. 
If  pulling  the  briar  or  pounding  the  plugs  for  a  dollar 

a  day  is  a  crime, 
What's  asking  three  hundred  for  dirty  old  rugs  that 

were  made  in  your  grandfather's  time? 

If  this  is  a  showdown  of  Meccas,  my  friends,  of  the 

Yank  or  Arabian  kind, 
We  look  at  the  matter  from  different  ends  and  we  each 

have  a  different  mind. 
The  man  who  looked  down  on  us  both  from  a  shelf  he 

would  say,  when  he  saw  how  we  did, 
There's  good  in  a  man  who  will  bury  himself  in  the 

woods  for  the  sake  of  his  kid. 

The  fellow  who  diets  on  cocoanut  milk  and  who  spends 

all  his  moments  in  prayer 
Thinks  he  has  a  soul  that  is  finer  than  silk,  that  is  ready 

its  winglets  to  wear. 

25 


THE  PILGRIMAGE 

But  what  of  the  man  in  a  mackinaw  shirt,  one  who 

thinks  of  the  girl  that  he  wed, 
Who's  willing  to  swamp  and  to  dig  in  the  dirt  that  the 

wife  and  the  kids  may  be  fed? 

I'm  thinking  my  Mecca  is  moral  as  his,  though  it's  lit 

by  no  altars  ablaze; 
I  guess  my  religion  is  work,  all  it  is,  yet  I  think  it 

deserving  of  praise. 
Perhaps  the  good  Lord,  when  before  Him  I  go,  He 

will  hand  me  a  crown  and  will  say, 
"This  man  had  to  make  him  a  living  below  and  I  guess 

was  too  busy  to  pray." 


26 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

The  man  who  owns  these  metes  an'  bounds  an*  tim- 
bered quarter  sections, 

Whose  hayroads  link  our  campin'  grounds  in  nearly 
all  directions, 

Awoke  one  mornin'  in  the  town  to  find  a  blizzard 
blowing 

An*  shivered  in  his  dressin'  gown  to  see  that  it  was 
snowin'. 

Then  what  did  Mr.  Main  Guy  do?  He  packed  his 
fancy  duffle, 

His  spiketail  coat  an*  skypiece  new  an*  shirt  with  pleat 
an'  ruffle, 

An'  hopped  aboard  his  special  car  attached  to  'Frisco 
hummer 

An'  hiked  for  Calif ornya  far,  the  golden  land  of  Sum- 
mer. 

There,  while  the  snows  in  Michigan  are  driftin'  high  as 
houses 

An'  blizzards  hide  the  Winter  sun  while  Boreas  ca- 
rouses, 

27 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

He'll  play  his  game  of  pasture  pool  upon  a  meadow 

sunny, 
While  us  poor  skates  in  regions  cool  go  out  an'  make 

his  money. 

Each  pleasant  mornin'  he'll  git  up  as  soon  as  he  is  able 
An*  find  beside  his  coffee  cup  fresh  grapefruit  on  the 

table, 
While  we  will  eat  at  four  A.  M.  beneath  a  lantern's 

flicker, 
An*  masticate  our  graham  gem  some  earlier  an'  quicker. 

An'  yet  we  do  not  envy  you  with  ev'ry  little  flurry, 

An'  if  we  git  a  freeze  or  two,  or  blizzard,  we  should 
worry. 

We  don't  mind  Wintertime  a  bit — there's  somethin' 
good  about  it, 

An*  fellahs  who  are  used  to  it  can't  git  along  with- 
out it. 

Your  Calif ornya  may  be  fine  with  Summer  altogether, 
But  I'll  take  Michigan  for  mine,  in  spite  of  stormy 

weather. 
There  may  some  pleasure  be,  perhaps,  in  little  golf 

balls  chasin', 
An'  yet  our  under  zero  snaps  are  twenty  times  as 

bracin'. 

28 


While  us  poor  skates  in  regions  cool  go  out  an'  make  his  money 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

An'  I  will  gamble,  in  the  Spring,  when  Winter  passes 

over, 

An'  little  birds  begin  to  sing  amid  the  buddin'  clover, 
We'll  come  a-gallivantin'  down  like  some  Kentucky 

stepper, 
Prepared  to  lick  up  half  the  town,  we'll  feel  so  full  of 

pepper. 

A  man  requires  some  kind  of  change  in  ev'ry  sort  of 
diet, 

His  appetite  to  rearrange  an'  make  his  pulses  riot, 

An'  I  would  rather  be  a  poor  up-river  grade  of  bum- 
mer 

Than  ev'ry  week  an'  month  endure  your  blamed,  eter- 
nal Summer. 


29 


OH,  TO  BE  A  GYPSY 

Oh,  to  be  a  gypsy,  and  drive  a  gypsy  van 
Uphill  and  downhill,  and  be  a  gypsy  man ! 
Willow  for  your  whipstock,  clover  in  your  hat, 
Nothing  in  your  pocketbook  at  all — but  what  of 
that ! 

Tin  pans  that  rattle,  tin  pails  that  swing — 
Uphill  and  downhill  merrily  they  sing ; 
Jingle  and  jangle,  clashing  out  a  tune, 
Making  gypsy  melody  for  a  gypsy  June ! 

Uphill  and  downhill,  a  blossom  in  your  mouth, 
Northward  in  Summertime,  Winter  in  the  South. 
Just  a  van  to  ward  you  from  the  heat  or  cold, 
No  house  to  shelter  you,  no  house  to  hold ! 

Money  is  a  burden,  dollars  are  a  care, 
But  a  gypsy  wanders,  wanders  anywhere ; 
Uphill  and  downhill,  gypsy,  let  us  roam, 
Ev'ry  night  a  campfire,  ev'ry  night  a  home ! 


30 


THE  STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER  FOREVER 

If  it's  men  for  your  ships,  if  it's  men  for  your  shore, 

If  it's  men  for  your  guns  on  the  borders, 
If  it's  guards  for  your  firesides,  or  fighters  for  war, 

We  are  ready  and  waiting  your  orders. 
We  will  lay  down  the  ax,  we  will  hang  up  the  saw, 

We  will  come  from  the  rafts  on  the  river ; 
And  we'll  fight  for  the  land  and  we'll  fight  for  the  law 

And  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  forever ! 

If  it's  men  for  the  sea  we  have  river-rats  here 

Who  are  kings  of  the  drive  and  the  water ; 
If  it's  men  for  the  line  we  have  swampers  to  cheer 

All  the  louder  when  matters  get  hotter. 
If  it's  over  the  sea  you  would  have  us  to  go, 

There  to  conquer  the  foe  our  endeavor, 
We  are  ready — and  only  one  ditty  we  know : 

That's  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  forever ! 

We  have  handled  a  saw,  we  can  handle  a  gun ; 

We  have  made  us  a  trail  through  the  timber, 
And  we'll  swamp  you  a  road  to  a  place  in  the  sun, 

For  our  arms  and  our  axes  are  limber. 

31 


THE  STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER  FOREVER 

The  man  in  the  town  is  a  fancier  guy, 
The  man  in  the  town  may  be  clever ; 

But  we're  ready  to  fight  and  we're  ready  to  die 
For  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  forever ! 


32 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE 

You  skirt  in  a  hammock,  you  dame  in  a  swing,  you 

dude  in  the  stern  of  a  yacht, 
You  think  you  are  hep  to  this  picnickin'  thing,  an* 

close  up  to  Nature  you've  got. 

You  load  up  a  basket  with  sissified  grub,  with  sand- 
wiches, olives  an*  jell, 
An*  travel  ten  miles  on  a  trolley  or  tub  an'  say  you 

will  rough  it  a  spell. 
You  carry  a  napkin  to  wipe  off  your  chin,  a  tablecloth 

folded  an*  neat, 
An'  china  an'  silverware  always  put  in — for  otherwise 

how  could  you  eat? 
You  set  on  the  grass  an'  lay  chicken  away  in  under  a 

maple  or  pine 
An'  rave  of  "the  forest  primeval"  an'  say  the  life  that 

is  simple  is  fine. 

The  life  that  is  simple?    You  gimme  a  pain.     You 

think  you've  a  hero  behaved 
If  venturin'  half  of  a  mile  from  the  train  or  off  of  a 

street  that  is  paved. 

33 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE 

The  life  that  is  simple? — With  chicken  for  lunch  to 

eat  off  a  genuine  plate? 
You're  the  funniest,  phoniest,  buckwheater  bunch  that 

ever  broke  loose  in  the  state. 
I  tell  you,  my  friends  in  the  lawn  tennis  suits  an'  cute 

little  red  ribbon  lids, 
To  us  in  the  woods  in  our  snowpacks  or  boots  you're 

nothin'  but  sissies  an*  kids. 
The  life  that  is  simple?    If  really  you'd  like  to  be  a 

real  simple  life  cuss, 
Along  up  the  river  to  camp  take  a  hike  an'  put  in  a 

Winter  with  us. 

We'll  feed  you  outdoors  all  you  want  to  be  fed,  an' 
life  will  be  simple  enough ; 

We  won't  give  you  butter  to  put  on  your  bread,  but 
stoke  you  with  heartier  stuff — 

Pork  ribs  by  the  yard  that  are  swimmin'  in  fat  an* 
other  choice  cuts  of  the  meat, 

Sow  belly  an'  other  such  dishes  as  that,  rump  roast 
now  an'  then  for  a  treat. 

Our  beans  you  will  like,  if  a  noodle  you've  got,  be- 
cause that's  the  easiest  way — 

It's  better  to  like  'em,  because,  like  or  not,  you'll  git 
'em  four  f eedin's  a  day. 

34 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE 

An*  dainties  we'll  give  you,  of  that  never  fear,  along 

with  our  hunyacks  an*  coons; 
Your  palate  we'll  please  an'  your  appetite  cheer  with 

plenty  of  pickles  an'  prunes. 

We  won't  have  no  tables  or  pillows  or  stools,  or  wait- 
ers to  pass  things  around ; 
Tin  plates  an'  tin  cups  an'  steel  forks  are  the  tools, 

the  grub  it  is  set  on  the  ground. 
The  only  request  we'll  be  makin'  of  you  when  our 

table  de  hoty  you  try 
Is  that  you  won't  grab  the  best  chunks  in  the  stew  or 

carelessly  step  in  the  pie. 
You'll  have  to  look  out  for  yourself  like  the  rest, 

there's  no  one  to  pour  or  to  carve. 
Perhaps  you  can't  eat  any  chuck  but  the  best?     Of 

course,  if  you  can't,  you  can  starve. 
But,  if  you  partake  like  the  rest  of  the  bunch  an' 

shovel  some  food  in  your  phiz, 
I  guess  you'll  go  back  to  the  town  with  a  hunch  you 

know  what  the  simple  life  is. 


35 


IN  TOWN  ON  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

I've  hit  her  up  a  few  myself  when  Winter  days  was 

done; 

With  twenty  million  on  the  shelf  a-waitin'  for  the  sun, 
I've  brung  my  Winter  stake  to  town  an'  moseyed  to  be 

first 

Of  all  the  lumberjacks  to  drown  an  18-karat  thirst ; 
But  I  renig,  an'  I  give  up,  an'  I  lay  down  an'  quit : 
I  thought  that  I  could  quaff  the  cup  an'  hit  it  up  a  bit ; 
But  of  my  thirst  I  ain't  so  proud,  an*  I  just  set  an' 

grieve — 
For  I  ain't  in  it  with  your  crowd  in  town  on  New 

Year's  Eve. 

Last  year  we  broke  a  donkey  gear  when  things  was 

goin'  fine. 
The  boss  he  says  to  me,  "Come  here.    You  take  the 

Number  Nine 
An*  git  to  town,  an'  git  repairs,  an'  back  here  New 

Year's  Day 
Or  (sometimes  Mister  Murphy  swears)  or  there'll  be 

hell  to  pay. 

36 


IN  TOWN  ON  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

An'  somethin'  else,  me  fine  gossoon,  to  you  I  would 

confide : 
If  you  should  see  a  beer  saloon,  just  tie  your  thirst 

outside." 
An*  so  I  rode  the  Russels  down  right  prompt  you  may 

believe — 
That's  how  I  come  to  be  in  town  last  year  on  New 

Year's  Eve. 

An'  there  a  friend  met  up  with  me  (they're  always  on 

the  spot, 
Around  where  you're  supposed  to  be  to  lead  you  where 

you're  not). 
He  asked  me  just  to  have  a  beer.    I  said,  "Nay,  nay, 

Pauline ; 

I  have  a  solemn  duty  here  to  nursemaid  this  machine." 
"Well,  anyhow,"  he  says,  says  he,  "it  wouldn't  be 

a  sin 
For  you  to  come  along  an'  see  us  see  the  New  Year 

in." 
I  knew  the  time  was  hours  away  when  Number  Nine 

would  leave — 
That's  how  I  come  in  Smith's  Cafe  last  year  on  New 

Year's  Eve. 

Believe  me,  Smith's  is  quite  a  place,  with  glitter,  glass 

an'  gilt, 
With  window  curtains  made  of  lace,  an'  fit  for  Van- 

derbilt. 

37 


IN  TOWN  ON  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

But,  fellahs,  once  inside  of  there,  it  wasn't  lights  an' 

gold  i 

That  handed  me  the  punch  for  fair  an'  knocked  me 

stiff  an'  cold — 
It  was  another  sort  of  sight  that  met  my  backwoods 

eyes, 
It  was  another  thing  that  night  that  floored  me  with 

su'prise ; 
For,  while  the  booze  was  slippin'  down,  the  thirsty  to 

relieve, 
There  set  the  ladies  of  the  town  that  night  on  New 

Year's  Eve. 

But  some  of  them  they  didn't  set  as  much  as  you 
suppose ; 

For,  when  her  throttle  she  had  wet,  at  times  a  dame 
arose 

An'  led  the  singin*  of  a  song  or  startin'  of  a  shout 

To  help  the  merriment  along  an'  see  the  Old  Year  out. 

No,  these  was  really  ladies,  boys,  the  ladies  of  the 
town; 

The  wives  an'  sisters  liked  the  noise  an'  cries  of  "Drink 
'er  down." 

An*  one  who  loudest  seemed  to  be,  you  hardly  will  be- 
lieve, 

Had  left  at  home  a  babe  of  three,  to  riot  New  Year's 
Eve. 

38 


IN  TOWN  ON  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

I  don't  lay  claim  to  be  a  saint — in  fact,  I'm  purty 

rough ; 
An'  I  ain't  never  heard  complaint  that  I  don't  drink 

enough. 
But  I've  opinions  just  the  same,  old-fashioned  though 

they  sound ; 

An'  when  you  try  the  drinkin'  game,  an'  riotin'  around, 
To  me  a  table  an'  a  bar  is  much  alike,  I  think, 
An',  it  don't  matter  where  you  are,  a  cocktail  is  a 

drink. 
So,  on  occasions  such  as  these,  my  wife  at  home  I'll 

leave — 
I'll  do  the  boozin',  if  you  please,  that's  done  on  New 

Year's  Eve. 


39 


THE  WIDOW-MAKER 

A  loose  limb  hangs  upon  a  pine  three  log-lengths  from 

the  ground, 
A  norway  tumbles  with  a  whine  and  shakes  the  woods 

around. 
The  loose  limb  plunges  from  its  place  and  zigzags 

down  below; 
And  Jack  is  lying  on  his  face — there's  red  upon  the 

snow. 

They'll  dress  him  in  a  cotton  shirt,  they'll  cross  his 

horny  hands ; 

They'll  dig  a  hollow  in  the  dirt  within  the  forest  lands ; 
They'll  put  him  in  a  wooden  box;  they'll  wonder 

whence  he  came, 
And  build  a  monument  of  rocks  without  a  date  or 

name. 

"He  got  a  letter,  that  I  know."  "I  wonder  where  it  is." 
"I  heard  him  speak  not  long  ago  about  a  wife  of  his." 
"Employment  agent  shipped  him  up — he  didn't  have  a 

cent." 
"He  was  a  most  peculiar  pup."    "He  was  a  gloomy 

gent." 

40 


THE  WIDOW-MAKER 

And  so  they'll  talk  around  the  fire  a  little  longer  yet ; 
But  even  idle  tongues  will  tire,  and  even  men  forget. 
A  season  passes,  and  a  year.  "Why,  yes,  now  thinkin' 

back, 
A  widow-maker  hit  him  here.    We  used  to  call  him 

Jack." 

And  far  away,  'mid  city  streets  Jack  staggers  down  no 

more, 
A  heart,  a  woman's,  madly  beats,  each  knock  upon  the 

door. 
She's  back  with  mother  in  the  flat.     She  thought  she 

wouldn't  care. 
Why  does  she  always  jump  like  that,  each  step  upon 

the  stair? 

"For  anger  burns  so  quick  a  flame  the  year  that  you 

are  wed. 
I  said  some  things  just  as  they  came  I  never  should 

have  said. 

It  takes  a  little  time,  I  guess,  the  married  life  to  live — 
To  want  your  way  a  little  less,  to  suffer  and  forgive." 

They'll  dress  him  in  a  cotton  shirt,  they'll  cross  his 

horny  hands ; 
They'll  dig  a  hollow  in  the  dirt  within  the  forest  lands ; 

41 


THE  WIDOW-MAKER 

They'll  put  him  in   a  wooden  box;  they'll  wonder 

whence  he  came, 
And  build  a  monument  of  rocks  without  a  date  or 

name. 


42 


THE  HAIR  OF  THE  DOG 

There  was  a  lumberjack  who  tried 

To  break  away  from  booze, 
An*  ev'ry  Winter  nearly  died, 

An*  yet  the  fight'd  lose ; 
All  Winter  he  would  go  without 

An*  never  take  a  thing ; 
An*  then  would  kill  himself,  about, 

With  whisky  in  the  Spring. 

Last  Winter  up  to  camp  he  come 

An',  as  he  always  would, 
Announced  that  he  was  through  with  rum, 

An*  through  with  it  for  good. 
He  sprung  a  gold-cure  of  his  own : 

To  show  that  he  was  strong, 
That  he  could  leave  the  stuff  alone, 

He  brought  a  quart  along. 

He  put  that  whisky  in  his  bunk; 

He  slept  with  it  at  night ; 
But  not  a  drink  he  ever  drunk, 

An1  no  one  saw  him  tight. 
43 


THE  HAIR  OF  THE  DOG 

Each  day  he  said,  "All  yesterday 

I  didn't  taste  the  stuff. 
I  guess,  old  booze,"  he  used  to  say, 

"You'll  see  it  ain't  a  bluff." 

A  week,  a  month,  the  Winter  passed, 

But  still  it  was  the  same — 
For  he  had  won  the  fight  at  last 

An'  proved  that  he  was  game. 
An',  when  he  come  to  town  again, 

He'd  lean  against  the  bar 
An'  tell  the  other  drinkin'  men 

What  omadhauns  they  are. 

No  doubt  there  are  a  bunch  of  things 

That  worry  us  a  lot ; 
But  maybe  we  could  pull  their  stings 

If  close  to  them  we  got, 
If  we  that  way  of  his'd  try — 

Just  bunked  with  them  a  bit, 
Just  looked  them  squarely  in  the  eye, 

An*  showed  a  little  grit. 


CALL  US,  AMERICA! 

Call  us,  America, 

If  you  want  men ! 
Sound  the  loud  clarion 

Over  the  camp ; 
We  shall  come  merrily 

Marching  again 
Out  of  the  wilderness, 

Out  of  the  damp. 
To  the  blue  firmament 

Fling  the  blue  flag, 
Banner  of  liberty, 

Red,  white  and  blue, 
High  on  the  mountain-top's 

Uttermost  crag — 
Call  us,  America, 

Call  up  the  crew ! 

Call  us,  America, 

Out  of  the  wood, 
Out  of  the  timberland, 

If  it  be  war; 
Call  up  the  lumberjacks, 

They  who  have  stood 
45 


CALL  US,  AMERICA 

On  your  red  battle-line 

Fighting  before. 
When  they  have  challenged  you 

We  have  replied, 
Men  from  the  lumber  camp 

Answered  them  then — 
Guarding  the  Government, 

Guarding  the  tide, 
Call  us,  America, 

If  you  want  men ! 


46 


PROSPERITY 

It's  easy  to  haul  on  the  level, 

A  tote-road  that's  smooth  as  a  floor ; 
You  may  have  to  work  like  the  devil 

An'  pull  till  your  shoulder  is  sore ; 
An'  even  a  hill  may  not  best  you, 

A  little  upgrade  now  an'  then — 
But  there  is  one  road  that  will  test  you, 

The  test  of  both  horses  an'  men. 

An'  that  is  the  downgrade,  my  brother, 

The  place  where  you  don't  have  to  pull ; 
The  easy  road,  somehow  or  other, 

Is  one  that  of  trouble  is  full. 
The  road  up  the  hill  you  can  master, 

The  long  haul  that's  level  may  beat, 
But  when  things  are  pushin'  you  faster — 

That's  when  you  must  keep  on  your  feet. 

Hard  luck  seldom  conquers  a  fellah, 

A  man  of  the  regular  kind ; 
But  when  you  will  quit,  if  you're  yellah, 

Is  when  things  are  shovin'  behind. 

47 


PROSPERITY 

Right  then  is  the  danger  of  ditchin', 
Right  then  you  are  wantin'  to  run — 

So  brace  yourself  back  in  the  britchin' 
An*  keep  in  the  middle,  my  son. 


JUST  ALIVE 

A  lawg-chain  broke,  an*  a  hemlock  load 
Come  pourin'  down  on  the  open  road. 

It  caught  Red  Jones  where  he  stood  at, 
It  caught  Red  Jones  before  he  knowed 

An*  it  knocked  him  down  an'  it  rolled  him  flat. 

We  pried  'em  loose  an*  we  pulled  Red  out. 

He  was  bunged  up  right,  an'  there  ain't  no  doubt. 

He  had  broke  one  arm,  he  had  broke  one  laig, 
He  had  tore  his  ear,  he  had  broke  his  snout, 

An'  his  ribs  was  stove  like  a  soft-boiled  aig. 

We  loaded  Red  on  a  lawggin'  sleigh 

An'  we  drove  all  night  an'  we  drove  all  day 

Over  corduroy,  over  rut  an'  rock, 
Till  we  fetched  at  last  to  old  Cloquet 

An'  landed  Red  with  the  sawmill  doc. 

When  the  doc  got  through  of  a-mendin'  Red, 
An'  had  him  put  snug  in  a  trundle  bed, 

An'  he  said  that  Red  maybe  might  survive, 
Then  what  do  you  think  that  darn  fool  said  ? 

"Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  be  just  alive!" 

49 


JUST  ALIVE 

Then  I  went  downstairs  an*  I  says,  says  I, 
(To  myself,  of  course),  "You're  a  lucky  guy! 

You  ain't  broke  no  laig  an'  ain't  broke  no  rib, 
An'  you  needn't  lay  while  the  days  go  by 

An*  eat  from  a  spoon  with  a  baby's  bib." 

An'  it  done  me  good  just  to  swing  my  stem, 
An'  my  arms — well,  I  tried  out  both  of  them ; 

An'  I  wiggled  all  of  my  fingers  five, 
An'  I  quoted  Red's  little  vocal  gem, 

"Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  be  just  alive !" 


50 


SUPERANNUATED 

We're  breakin'  camp  on  Sunday,  we're  goin'  back  to 

town, 

We'll  hit  the  trail  on  Monday,  the  last  big  stick  is  down. 
I  heard  it  roar  an'  rumble,  I  watched  the  giant  fall ; 
I  saw  the  pine-tree  tumble,  the  last  old  boy  of  all. 

Old  pine,  the  truth  I'm  learnin':  I,  too,  have  had  my 

day; 

I,  too,  no  more  returnin'  will  come  along  the  way. 
For  Time's  keen  ax  has  hit  me  an'  sent  me  to  the 

dump; 
For  Time  has  come  to  git  me,  an'  life  is  but  a  stump. 

There  may  come  other  seasons  an'  other  fightin'  men, 
But  Ij  for  Time's  good  reasons,  will  not  come  back 

again. 

I  am  a  dead  pine  standin*  upon  a  treeless  hill; 
Death  waits  beside  the  landin'  to  claim  me  as  he  will. 

For  forty  years  I've  tramped  it  by  tote-road  an'  by 

trail ; 
For  forty  years  I've  camped  it  in  rain  an*  snow  an1 

hail; 

51 


SUPERANNUATED 

But  now  my  arm  no  longer  will  clear  away  the  pine, 
An*  younger  men  an*  stronger  will  do  this  work  of 
mine. 

An'  yet  I  will  not  sorrow,  though  age  is  in  my  veins, 
Though  but  a  short  to-morrow  to  such  as  me  remains. 
For,  when  the  strand  shall  sever,  some  friend  will 

come  an*  say : 
"Now  give  him  rest  forever — for,  God,  he  worked  his 

way!" 


52 


THE  BREAKUP 

Now  the  breakup  is  here,  for  the  Springtime  is  near, 

an'  the  Winter  has  mootched  on  its  way. 
We  have  busted  our  camp  an*  are  off  on  a  tramp  to  the 

palaces  down  on  the  Bay — 
Twenty  miles  by  the  trail  an'  a  hunderd  by  rail  in  the 

dawghouse  along  with  the  con, 
Till  we  meet  up  again  with  them  pleasant  young  men, 

with  the  lads  with  the  diamonds  on. 

Yep,  the  Springtime  is  nigh,  an'  we're  sayin'  good-by 

to  the  norway  an'  pine  for  a  spell : 
We  have  cussed  out  the  boss,  fed  our  favorite  hoss,  an' 

have  kicked  the  young  bullcook  farewell. 
We  have  squared  with  the  van  for  the  bills  that  we  ran 

for  our  Peerless  an'  mittens  an'  socks, 
An'  we're  off  for  the  town  with  our  walks  written  down 

for  the  barkeep  to  change  into  rocks. 

Twenty  miles  by  the  trail  an'  a  hunderd  by  rail  in  the 

dawghouse  along  with  the  con, 
Till  we  meet  up  again  with  them  pleasant  young  men 

with  the  aprons  an'  diamonds  on. 

53 


THE  BREAKUP 

We've  a  seven  months'  thirst  to  be  shortly  immersed, 
for  we're  rollin'  in  easy-got  wealth ; 

An*  the  sissified  jay  who  may  git  in  our  way  he  had 
better  look  out  for  his  health. 

For  we're  lousey  with  cash  an*  we're  weary  of  hash  an' 

we  long  for  a  sight  of  the  suds. 
We've  a  campstake  to  blow  with  the  parties  below  for 

their  licker  an'  dinners  an'  duds. 
We've  a  campstake  to  spend  at  the  long  Winter's  end, 

an'  they're  waitin'  to  see  us  come  down : 
They  are  crackin'  up  ice  an'  are  raisin'  the  price  of 

ev'ry  old  thing  in  the  town. 

But  what  do  we  care?    We  have  lucre  to  spare,  an' 

there's  nothin'  too  good  for  us  now. 
If  the  limit  is  ten  we  will  tilt  it  again,  for  we're  ripe 

for  a  game  or  a  row. 
There'll  be  singin'  o'  nights  an'  some  beautiful  fights 

an'  a  general  raisin'  of  Ned, 
An'  that  little  old  spot,  if  it  wants  it  or  not,  will  be 

painted  a  delicate  red. 

When  the  campstake  is  gone  an'  we  see  the  gray  dawn, 
when  the  fiddles  are  playin'  no  more, 

When  the  pleasure  is  past  an'  we're  busted  at  last,  with 
a  head  an'  a  heart  that  are  sore, 
54 


THE  BREAKUP 

With  no  sighin'  or  sobs  we  will  hustle  for  jobs  an*  will 
thank  the  good  Lord  we're  alive — 

For  there's  work  an'  there's  fun  an*  white  water  to 
run,  up  the  river  along  with  the  drive ! 


55 


WHEN  THE  DRIVE  GOES  DOWN 

There's  folks  that  like  the  good  dry  land,  an'  folks 

that  like  the  sea, 
But  rock  an'  river,  shoal  an'  sand,  are  good  enough 

for  me. 
There's  folks  that  like  the  ocean  crest,  an'  folks  that 

like  the  town — 

But  when  I  really  feel  the  best  is  when  the  drive  goes 
down. 

So  pole  away,  you  river  rats, 

From  landin'  down  to  lake — 
There's  miles  of  pine  to  keep  in  line, 
A  hunderd  jams  to  break ! 

There's  folks  that  like  to  promenade  along  the  boule- 
vard, 

But  here's  a  spot  I  wouldn't  trade  for  all  their  pave- 
ment hard ; 
Ten   thousand   lawgs  by   currents  birled  an'   waters 

white  that  hiss — 

Oh,  where's  the  sidewalk  in  the  world  that's  half  as 
fine  as  this? 

So  leap  away,  you  river  rats, 

From  landin'  down  to  sluice ; 
There's  lawgs  to  run,  there's  peavey  fun 
To  break  the  timber  loose ! 

56 


r 


An'  etfry  time  you  turn  a  bend  the  next  bend  looks  the  best 


WHEN  THE  DRIVE  GOES  DOWN 

An'  ev'ry  rollin'  of  a  stick  that  starts  her  down  the 

stream 
An'  ev'ry  bit  of  water  quick  where  runnin'  ripples 

gleam 
Means  gittin'  nearer  to  the  end,  to  wife  an*  babe  an* 

rest— 

An'  ev'ry  time  you  turn  a  bend  the  next  bend  looks  the 
best. 

Then  peg  away,  you  river  rats, 

From  sluiceway  down  to  mill — 
Each  rock  you  clear  will  bring  you  near 
The  house  upon  the  hill ! 

There's  folks  that  like  the  good  dry  land,  an'  folks 

that  like  the  sea, 
But  rock  an'  river,  shoal  an'  sand,  are  good  enough 

for  me. 
There's  folks  that  like  the  ocean  crest,  an'  folks  that 

like  the  town — 
But  when  I  really  feel  the  best  is  when  the  drive  goes 

down! 


57 


TENDERHEARTED  BILL 

The  lumberjack  he  ain't  no  saint, 

That  much  I  will  agree ; 
There  are  occasions  when  he  ain't 

Just  what  he  ought  to  be. 
At  sayin'  prayers  he's  kind  of  slack, 

An'  kind  of  fond  of  drink ; 
An'  yet  these  fellahs  ain't  as  black 

As  some  folks  seem  to  think. 

Now  there  was  Billy  Anderson, 

A  jack  from  Puget  Sound, 
A  fellah  who  could  lift  a  ton 

Like  some  men  lift  a  pound. 
An'  yet  he  had  the  kindest  heart, 

As  big  as  kingdom  come — 
You'd  always  see  him  take  the  part 

Of  creatures  that  was  dumb. 

Bill  never  any  horse  would  whip, 
No  matter  how  he  balked, 

An*  on  an  extry  longish  trip 
Big  Bill  got  out  an*  walked. 

58 


TENDERHEARTED  BILL 

Bill  never  yet  was  known  to  kick 

The  meanest  yellow  cur ; 
An',  when  that  spotted  calf  was  sick, 

How  Bill  took  care  of  her ! 

Why,  I  remember  once  we  had 

A  cat  around  the  camp ; 
She  wandered  in  so  thin  an1  sad, 

A  reg'lar  little  tramp. 
Bill  fed  her  meat  an'  fed  her  milk 

An'  give  her  half  his  chuck, 
Until  her  coat  was  fine  as  silk — 

She  surely  was  in  luck. 

Bill  Anderson  he  wouldn't  hurt 

(So  tenderhearted  he) 
The  mole  that  burrowed  in  the  dirt 

Or  bird  upon  the  tree. 
There's  nothin'  riled  Bill  Anderson 

As  for  some  big  galoot 
To  start  to  plaguin',  just  for  fun, 

Some  helpless  little  brute. 

One  night  the  clerk  he  tied  a  can 

Upon  the  kitten's  tail 
An'  turned  her  loose  outdoors — an',  man, 

You  ought  to  seen  her  sail ! 

59 


TENDERHEARTED  BILL 

Then  Bill,  the  tenderheartedest 
Of  men,  just  give  a  gulp 

An*  jumped  upon  that  joker's  chest 
An'  beat  him  to  a  pulp. 


60 


STONY  BROOK 

Oh,  the  Stony  Brook  is  foamin'  where  the  boulders 

show  their  teeth, 

Just  a-waitin'  for  a  chance  to  start  a  jam ; 
There  is  water  white  a-combin'  on  the  granite  under- 
neath, 

There's  a  lovely  chance  for  trouble  at  the  dam. 
They  will  sluice  her  just  at  daylight  an'  they'll  let  a 

million  through, 

They  will  ram  her  full  of  timber  to  the  brim, 
They  will  sluice  her  in  the  gray  light,  an'  there'll  be 

some  work  to  do 
For  Johnny  Long  an'  them  along  with  him. 

Yes,  I  think  it  more'n  likely  that  there  will, 
But  there's  half  a  hunderd  peavies  on  the  hill, 

And  there's  half  a  hunderd  rats 

That  are  handier'n  cats 
Just  a-longin'  for  the  pond  above  to  spill. 

They  have  mootched  it  down  from  Percy's,  they  have 

hiked  it  from  the  rear, 

They  have  gethered  in  from  ev'ry  blasted  camp, 
An'  they're  ready  for  the  mercies  of  a  brook  like  this'n 

here, 
An*  they  ain't  afraid  of  bubbles  an*  of  damp. 

61 


STONY  BROOK 

So  it's  jam,  you  norway  devils,  an'  it's  jam,  you  crazy 

pine — 

We  will  show  you  how  a  man  can  be  a  mink; 
We  will  join  you  in  your  revels  an'  we'll  whip  you 

into  line 
Or  we'll  leave  our  bones  to  whiten  in  the  drink. 

We  may  leave  our  bones  below  to  wash  away, 
We  may  give  the  rocks  a  choicer  bit  for  play, 
We  may  die  along  with  you, 
But  we'll  drive  you,  drive  you  through, 
An'  we'll  land  you  safe  an'  solid  at  Cloquet. 

Now  a  jill-poke  in  the  alders  is  a  mighty  measly 

thing — 

It  can  tie  a  lot  of  timber  in  a  knot ; 
But  a  pair  of  granite  boulders  can  a  hunderd  thousand 

wing 

Till  there's  nothin'  that'll  budge  it  but  a  shot. 
But,  before  you  try  the  powder  or  to  break  her  with 

the  juice, 

Hand  some  peavies  to  the  river  rats  an'  jacks, 
We  will  roll  her  an'  we'll  crowd  her  an'  we'll  break 

the  timber  loose, 
We  will  break  her,  or  a  half  a  hunderd  backs. 

62 


STONY  BROOK 

We  may  break  a  half  a  hunderd  men  in  two, 
But  we'll  git  that  Injun  timber  safely  through ; 

We  will  pry  the  Stony  Brook 

Wider  open  than  a  book — 
Yes,  there's  work  for  Johnny  Long  an'  us  to  do ! 


63 


THE  WINNER 

He  had  come  up  from  the  ranks.     He  drove 

A  yoke  of  steers  in  the  good  old  days 
When  Michigan  all  was  a  treasure  trove 

And  men  made  money  in  various  ways. 

He  watched  his  chance  and  he  made  his  plays 
And  he  worked  at  night  till  the  stars  were  dim- 

And  presently  people  began  to  praise, 
And  even  at  last  to  envy  him. 

Now,  that  is  the  mark  of  a  true  success : 

When  you're  doing  well  and  the  world  is  glad 
You  have  partly  won — but  the  thing,  I  guess, 

Is  to  do  so  well  that  the  world  gets  mad. 

When  the  people  talk  of  the  luck  you  had 
And  begin  to  wink  and  to  shake  the  head 

And  to  hint  of  ways  that  were  dark  and  bad, 
Then  you've  won  success — so  he  often  said. 

But  he,  'way  down  in  his  heart,  he  knew 

What  success  had  cost,  how  success  had  come: 

It  came  on  the  long  trail  to  the  Soo, 
It  came  in  the  timber  of  the  Thumb, 

64 


THE  WINNER 

It  came  on  nights  when  his  legs  were  numb 
With  the  wear  of  labor  and  hurt  of  cold, 

When  he  asked  the  future,  and  found  it  dumb, 
Where  the  highway  lay  to  the  land  of  gold. 

But  he  worked  and  figured  and  fought  and  planned, 

He  watched  his  chance  as  a  fighter  must, 
And  he  hammered  fate  with  a  good  right  hand 

In  the  Winter  snow,  in  the  Summer  dust; 

And  others  might  falter  and  others  rust 
But  his  will  shone  on  like  a  shining  sword, 

With  an  endless  hope  and  a  tireless  thrust, 
As  a  yeoman  fought  for  his  ancient  lord. 

It  put  the  wrinkles  upon  his  brow, 

It  put  the  gray  in  his  yellow  hair, 
It  gave  him  a  brand  of  his  own,  somehow, 

That  none  of  the  envious  ever  wear. 

For  labor  had  written  its  record  there 
In  his  shoulders  round  and  his  fingers  bent — 

On  his  face  had  printed  the  stamp  of  care — 
And  something,  too,  of  a  great  content. 

There  is  something  envy  can  never  reach, 
There  is  something  envy  can  never  touch 

With  its  keenest  word  or  its  cruelest  speech, 
When  a  man  has  labored  and  suffered  much. 

65 


THE  WINNER 

For  what  are  the  idle  words  of  such 
By  the  glad  approval  of  one's  own  soul? 

Their  words  of  envy  to  those  who  clutch 
The  thing  they  sought  for,  the  golden  goal? 

He  is  walking  down  through  the  final  years 

(He  passes  silently  on  the  way), 
And  the  vale  behind  has  been  wet  with  tears 

And  the  hills  behind  have  been  glad  with  day. 

And  do  you  think  that  the  things  we  say, 
The  sneer  of  envy,  the  laugh  of  spite, 

Could  bow  the  head  of  the  man  of  gray 
That  has  held  erect  in  the  hardest  fight? 

For  the  thing  we  win  in  the  war  of  life 

It  is  not  the  gold,  it  is  not  the  fame, 
But  the  inner  sense  that  through  all  the  strife 

Unchanged,  unfaltering,  still  we  came. 

We  have  won  our  own,  not  the  world's  acclaim, 
The  thing  we  wanted  to  do  have  done; 

And  the  world  may  praise  or  the  world  may  blame — 
But  our  own  souls  know  we  have  worked,  and  won. 


THE  HERO  MEDDLERS 

So  now  they  are  pinnin'  of  medals  on  people,  I  see  by 

the  news : 
They're  huntin'  the  highways  for  heroes  an1  beatin' 

the  byways  for  clues, 
An*  ketchin',  convictin'  an'  markin',  while  Andy  more 

martyrs  pursues. 

That's  all  very  pleasant  an*  proper,  but  leads  me  to 

wonderin'  what 
They  figger  down  east  is  a  hero,  they  rigger  is  brave 

an'  is  not ; 
I  bet,  while  they're  huntin'  for  heroes,  a  few  of  our 

own  we  have  got — 

A  few  of  our  own  on  the  river,  that  never  no  medals 

will  wear 
Because  all  the  things  they  are  doin'  they  always  are 

doin'  out  there, 
With  no  one  to  'specially  notice  an*  no  one  to  'specially 

care. 

67 


THE  HERO  MEDDLERS 

It's  courage  to  fight  the  quickwater  a  moment  some 
mortal  to  save, 

It's  courage  the  rapids  to  rassle  an*  rescue  some  fool 
from  the  grave ; 

But  to  do  it  for  bread  an*  for  butter  all  day  ain't  con- 
sidered so  brave. 

I  reckon  we  won't  git  no  medals  up  here  for  the 
chances  we  take; 

It's  just  for  the  wife  an'  the  babies,  the  rent  an'  a  gro- 
cery stake 

We  come  at  the  call  of  the  river,  the  jam  an'  the  roll- 
way  to  break. 

We  won't  git  no  thousand  a-livin',  we  won't  wear  no 
ornaments  dead ; 

There  ain't  none  of  us  that  are  heroes — we're  rats  of 
the  river  instead ; 

An*  we  ain't  runnin'  rapids  for  glory — we're  just  fight- 
in'  trouble  for  bread. 


68 


CHAUDIERE 

From  a  pathway  of  quiet  unstirred  by  commotion, 

From  the  forests  of  green  to  the  dwellings  of  brown, 
In  quest  of  the  river,  in  quest  of  the  ocean, 
The  Ottawa  waters  come  peacefully  down 

And,  here  by  the  town, 

Throw  aside  the  dull  gown 

Of  their  up-river  green 

For  the  shine  and  the  sheen 
And  the  gossamer  glory  of  rapids  that  run, 
For  the  glitter  of  jewels  that  flash  in  the  sun. 

Here  they  leap 

From  their  sleep 

And  in  majesty  sweep 

Through  a  gateway  of  stone,  through  the  cataract's  lair, 
Where  the  leonine  rocks  shake  the  mist  from  their  hair 

And  startle  the  shore 

With  the  roar 

Of  Chaudiere. 

From  the  hush  of  the  forest  where  censers  are  swing- 
ing, 

Where  the  lilies  unfold  and  the  wild  roses  bloom, 
In  quest  of  the  world  where  the  saw-song  is  singing, 

The  Ottawa  timber  comes  down  to  the  boom ; 

69 


CHAUDIERE 

And  here  waits  the  flume 

Frothing  white  with  the  spume, 

Frothing  white  with  the  spray 

Of  the  waters  at  play. 

Now  the  channel  is  opened  that  leads  to  the  slide, 
And  now  safe  by  the  rapids  the  timber-cribs  glide. 

Just  a  flash 

And  a  crash 

And  a  plunge  and  a  splash 

In  the  calm  of  the  stream  where  the  waters  run  fair — 
And  all  vainly  the  rocks  in  their  mid-river  lair 

Shall  threaten  them  more 

With  the  roar 

Of  Chaudiere. 

From  the  land  of  the  forest,  the  cabins  dim-lighted, 
From  the  camp  in  the  woodland  asleep  in  the  sun, 
In  quest  of  the  world  that  in  dreams  they  have  sighted 
The  men  of  the  shanties  come  down  for  their  fun, 

Come  down  ev'ry  one 

When  the  wild  work  is  done 

As  the  river  at  play 

Leaps  to  ripples  and  spray 

When  it  sniffs  the  St.  Lawrence  and  glimpses  the  goal 
Where  the  salt  breezes  freshen  and  long  billows  roll. 

To  be  free 

As  the  sea 

Ev'ry  man  longs  to  be 

70 


CHAUDIERE 

'Mid  the  lights  of  the  town,  'mid  the  smiles  of  the  fair — 
Then  what  shall  the  sturdy  young  shantyman  care 

Though  tremble  the  shore 

With  the  roar 

Of  Chaudiere? 

But  the  years  hurry  by  and  the  years  hurry  onward, 

The  ax-stroke  is  busy  on  hill  and  in  glen; 
As  fade  the  pale  stars  when  the  night  travels  dawn- 
ward, 

The  trees  in  the  sky  tumble  earthward  again. 
They  shall  vanish — and  then 
Shall  the  shoutings  of  men 
Diminish  and  die 
Where  the  waters  run  high. 

O  you  maid  in  the  town,  hold  your  shantyman  dear 
For  the  men  of  the  river  shall  vanish  from  here. 
They  shall  sweep 
To  the  deep 

Where  the  centuries  sleep 
And  shall  leave  but  a  kiss  and  a  memory  fair, 
Like  the  waters  that  flow  to  the  mystic  Out  There, 
Returning  no  more 
To  the  shore 

Of  Chaudiere. 


71 


THE  PRICE 

The  drive  it  ain't  such  easy  graft  that  I  would  recom- 
mend 

To  any  gink  to  ride  the  drink,  an',  least  of  all,  a  friend. 
It's  up  at  four  an*  sluice  a  dam  or  sack  a  swampy  rear 
Until  the  sun  has  got  the  run  an'  baby  stars  appear. 

It  ain't  no  job  to  recommend 

To  anybody  that's  a  friend. 

I've  heard  some  guy  from  off  the  plains  who'd  punched 

the  cows  a  spell 
Describe  the  same  an'  cuss  an'  claim  the  cowboy  life  is 

hell- 
When  cattle  beller  in  the  night  an'  fifty  head  go  down, 
When  bulls  stampede  an'  rivers  bleed  from  trampled 
banks  of  brown, 

While  gray  coyotes  wait  to  browse 
Upon  the  flanks  of  wounded  cows. 

But,  Mr.  Puncher  from  the  plains,  you've  never  tack- 
led this, 

Have  tried  to  put  a  Winter's  cut  to  town  without  a 
miss. 

72 


THE  PRICE 

A  bughouse  bull  may  scare  a  herd  an'  break  a  hunderd 

bones, 

An'  so  a  lawg  can  play  the  dawg  an'  snub  among  the 
stones 

An'  pile  a  norway  drive  so  deep 
A  crew  will  lose  a  week  of  sleep. 

My  puncher  friend  has  seen  a  man  an'  hoss  go  out  to 
mill 

The  bloodshot  eyes  an'  sweatin'  thighs  an'  flyin*  feet 
that  kill, 

Has  seen  a  man  an'  hoss  go  down  before  that  sea  of 
meat, 

Has  seen  it  pound  'em  in  the  ground  beneath  a  thou- 
sand feet — 

Has  seen  the  longhorns  have  their  fling 
An',  where  a  Man  was,  leave  a  Thing. 

But  I  have  seen  a  river-rat,  a  peavey  in  his  mit, 
Below  a  jam  the  peavey  ram  beneath  the  breast  of  it ; 
An'  I  have  heard  the  timber  break,  have  heard  it  groan 

an'  whine, 

Have  heard  him  cry  an*  seen  him  die  before  a  wall  of 
pine — 

Have  seen  the  foam  a  second  red 
That  never  yet  give  up  its  dead. 

73 


THE  PRICE 

An'  so,  I  guess,  it  always  is :  the  cowboy  or  the  rat 
They  may  be  slick,  but  Death  is  quick  an*  cattier  than 

that. 
As  long  as  men  must  fight  for  bread,  must  fight  an* 

work  an*  cuss, 

Some  other  guy  must  go  an'  die  to  pay  the  Price  for  us. 
For  men  who  toil  on  land  or  tide 
Have  Death,  the  foreman,  at  their  side. 


74 


THE  SIGNAL 

The  time  that  Peary  found  the  Pole 

I  saw  the  strangest  thing; 
My  blanket  'round  me  in  a  roll, 

I  camped  beside  a  spring. 
'Twas  when  outdoors  you  like  to  lay 

These  early  Summer  nights — 
An'  in  the  north,  so  far  away, 

I  saw  the  Northern  Lights. 

I  saw  the  blue  sky  overhead, 

An'  then,  in  flashin'  bars, 
I  saw  the  stripes  of  white  an*  red, 

An',  over  them,  the  stars. 
I  saw  the  red  an'  white  an'  blue 

Up  there  at  Peary's  goal — 
I  saw  the  Stars  an'  Stripes,  an'  knew 

That  he  had  found  the  Pole ! 


75 


THE  IRISH 

The  sawin'  of  lumber, 
The  fallin*  of  norway, 
The  old  occupation 

Of  drivin'  the  pine, 
Has  brought  any  number 
Of  men  to  our  doorway- 
Brought  every  nation 

A-crossin*  the  brine. 
But,  of  every  faction, 

From  swampers  to  sorters, 
Who  run  on  the  rivers 
Or  work  in  the  mill, 
The  quickest  in  action 
In  murmurin'  waters, 
The  cattiest  drivers, 
Are  Irishers  still ! 

Folks  talk  of  Quebeckers 
From  Saguenay  fountains, 
They  talk  of  world-beaters 
From  valleys  of  spruce, 
They  talk  of  the  crackers 
From  Tennessee  mountains, 
The  sow-belly  eaters 
An*  drinkers  of  juice, 

76 


THE  IRISH 

They  talk  of  the  Oles, 
The  foreigner  stranger 

Who  works  when  the  flood  of 

The  pine  is  at  hand — 
But  the  holy  of  holies, 
The  altar  of  danger, 
Is  red  with  the  blood  of 
The  emerald  land ! 

The  hottest  in  fightin', 
The  thirstiest  drinkin', 
The  loudest  in  prayin' 
When  prayin'  is  due, 
The  slowest  in  writing 
The  quickest  in  thinkin', 
The  wittiest  sayin' 

The  thoughts  of  a  crew — 
When  timber  is  jammin', 
When  trouble  is  makin', 
When  water  is  mirish 

Or  bubbles  alive, 
The  universe  damnin', 
The  lawg-jam  a-breakin' — 
Oh,  there  are  the  Irish, 
The  kings  of  the  drive ! 


77 


CHRISTELLA 

I  say  that  I  am  done  with  them — 

One  memory  has  turned  to  gall. 
I  have  my  little  fun  with  them — 

I  have  my  fun,  and  that  is  all. 
A  woman  square  ?    There  never  was 

A  woman  who  was  square  to  me. 
Christella — if  there  ever  was 

A  living  devil,  it  was  she. 

'Twas  Winter  in  the  timber  yet 

But  on  the  river  it  was  Spring. 
And,  God,  how  I  remember  yet 

The  woods,  the  waters,  everything. 
A  vale  like  that  one  yonder  there, 

A  road  that  ran  across  a  hill — 
We  used  to  come  to  wander  there ; 

'Twas  Spring,  and  it  was  Winter  still. 

One  night  she  picked  a  flow'r  or  two, 

These  faded  red  anemones. 
I  think  we  walked  an  hour  or  two — 

That  was  the  night  she  gave  me  these. 

78 


CHRISTELLA 

She  said  the  same  things  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  story  that  will  never  tire ; 

And,  fool,  I  worshiped  more  and  more, 
And  all  the  sky  was  red  as  fire. 

They  caught  them  many  miles  away, 

The  woman  and  the  man  at  last ; 
But  something  drove  the  smiles  away 

From  that  Christella  of  the  past. 
"You  do  not  know !"  she  cried  to  me 

And  looked  that  look  of  old  again ; 
I  guess  she  would  have  lied  to  me, 

If  I  had  let  her,  even  then. 

I  struck  her — God  forgive  me  that ; 

A  woman  is  a  woman  still. 
But  God  He  will  believe  me  that 

I  struck  when  other  men  would  kill. 
That  night,  that  minute,  to  the  West 

I  turned  my  face  forever  more ; 
And  not  a  woman  through  the  West 

Has  ever  passed  my  cabin  door. 

My  name  McKinney  ?   Yes,  it  was — 
And  many  more  have  done  the  same. 

How  is  it  that  you  guess  it  was 
Who  know  me  by  another  name  ? 

79 


CHRISTELLA 

She  said  it  ?    Hold  the  candle.    So 
Another  reaps  the  wage  of  sin  ? 

Be  careful  how  you  handle — Go 
And  get  the  doctor !    Bring  her  in ! 


80 


SEED 

My  front  yard  ain't  no  garden  spot — 
It's  chips  an*  cans  an'  other  junk, 

A  whisky  bottle,  like  as  not, 

Smashed  on  a  woodpile  by  a  drunk — 

My  front  yard  is  a  dumpin'  ground 

For  all  the  broken  stuff  around. 

An*  yet  the  other  day  I  seen 

A  crack  appear — then  peepin'  through 
There  come  a  little  leaf  of  green, 

An'  in  the  mornin'  there  was  two ; 
An'  now  to-day  looks  up  at  me 
A  smilin'  young  anemone. 

I  never  knew  that  it  was  there 
All  Winter  through  awaitin'  Spring, 

I  never  thought  a  place  so  bare 
Could  ever  grow  so  sweet  a  thing ; 

Yet  all  the  while  the  tiny  seed 

Was  waitin'  Springtime  to  be  freed. 

81 


SEED 

Last  night  a  preacher  come  to  camp 
An'  sung  a  song  an'  read  the  Word, 

An',  underneath  the  dirt  an'  damp 
An'  moral  junk,  a  blossom  stirred, 

A  thing  I  could  not  understand : 

I  looked — an*  Christ  held  out  His  hand. 

'Twas  not  the  preacher  done  it  all, 
'Twas  not  his  sermon  or  his  smile : 

A-listenin'  for  Jesus'  call 

My  soul  had  waited  all  the  while — 

The  seed  that  heard  the  parson's  pray'r 

A  word  my  mother  planted  there. 


82 


THE  SELF-MADE  MAN 

The  yarn  is  short.    Sit  down.    I'm  glad  to  tell 

The  little  to  be  told.    Hard  work— that's  all. 
Self-made  ?  I  guess  that  fits  me  pretty  well. 

I  surely  didn't  have  what  you  would  call 
A  silver  spoon  in  any  mouth  of  mine 

When  I  was  born,  for  we  were  poor  as  mice- 
A  homestead  eighty  in  a  land  of  pine ; 

An  even  hundred  was  the  purchase  price. 

Lord,  how  my  father  slaved — my  mother,  too. 

I  was  the  oldest,  and  I  got  a  share. 
How  fast  the  babies  came  and  troubles  grew, 

While  still  in  poverty  we  wallowed  there. 
Yet  father  was  the  easy-going  kind, 

And  scraped  along,  as  happy  as  could  be ; 
And  even  mother  didn't  seem  to  mind — 

But  I  said  soon  and  certain,  "Not  for  me !" 

There  was  a  girl — there  nearly  always  is. 

I  swore  that  I  would  never  offer  her, 
My  wife,  a  home  like  father  offered  his, 

The  dingy  shanty  of  a  laborer. 

83 


THE  SELF-MADE  MAN 

They  want  good  clothes,  they  want  a  thousand 
things 

The  ordinary  man  may  never  guess ; 
They  want  some  money — it  is  money  brings 

To  most  of  us  the  most  of  happiness. 

I  left  the  farm  and  struck  out  for  myself. 

I  never  did  get  back  in  all  the  years. 
Work  soon  put  poor  old  dad  upon  the  shelf, 

And  mother  long  ago  was  through  with  tears. 
I  often  used  to  wonder  how  things  went 

Back  there  at  home — I  bet  that  they  were  bad — 
But  I  worked  on  with  just  one  fixed  intent : 

To  have  a  little  more  than  father  had. 

Now,  I  knew  timber — dad  had  taught  me  that. 

He  never  had  the  gumption,  though,  to  get 
His  hands  on  any  of  it.    He  just  sat 

Asleep  'mid  riches.    He  just  sat  and  let 
No  better  men  grab  miles  and  miles  of  it, 

Good  old  cork  pine,  as  good  as  ever  grew ; 
But  when  the  trail  to  virgin  woods  I  hit 

I  knew  the  game,  and  knew  just  what  to  do. 

So  I  got  pine — a  forty,  eighty,  then 
A  quarter  section.  Every  copper  cent 

That  I  could  save  or  get  from  other  men 
Into  some  little  bunch  of  timber  went. 

84 


THE  SELF-MADE  MAN 

I  drove  a  team,  I  jobbed,  I  built  a  mill, 
And  I  knew  every  trick  of  every  trade. 

For  thirty  years  I  dug  away  until 
I  found  a  little  fortune  I  had  made. 

And  here  I  am — not  rich  as  riches  go ; 

You've  got  to  have  a  million  in  these  days 
To  call  you  rich — but,  if  I  had  to,  though, 

Perhaps  five  hundred  thousand  I  could  raise. 
Not  old — I  don't  call  crowding  sixty  old ; 

I'm  quick  and  spry  as  many  younger  are ; 
And  there  is  not  a  luxury  that's  sold 

I  can  not  buy — my  club,  my  yacht,  my  car. 

The  girl  ?  They're  all  alike,  these  women  are. 

That's  long  ago — I  neither  care  nor  hate. 
But  he  was  there,  and,  while  I  wandered  far, 

She  married  him,  and  wrote  she  could  not  wait. 
This  life  at  best  is  just  a  rotten  game. 

You  sometimes  wonder  why  you  must  exist. 
I  worked,  I  won — but  few  the  joys  that  came. 

I  guess  that  there  was  something  that  I  missed. 


85 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  PLAY 

As  reckless  an*  roarin'  a  gang  of  rats 

As  ever  broke  jams  or  laws 
That  landed  the  drive  at  the  Sanford  flats 

That  Spring  of  the  year  it  was. 
An',  when  it  was  snug  in  the  sortin'  boom, 

The  company  paid  us  off, 
We  crowded  the  bar  for  to  booze  consume 

Like  pigs  at  a  f  eedin*  troff . 

I  needn't  say  just  where  we  wound  it  up, 

That  beautiful  jamboree ; 
We'd  gargled  our  thirst  with  the  brimmin'  cup, 

As  mellah  as  men  could  be. 
They  had  a  pi-anna  ag'inst  the  wall, 

The  ladies  had  brought  to  town ; 
A  wanderin'  boozer  whose  name  was  Paul 

In  front  of  the  same  set  down. 

His  name  it  was  Paul.    That  was  all  we  knew, 

Exceptin'  his  brand  of  dope: 
He  guzzled  enough  for  a  lawggin'  crew 

An'  pulled  at  a  paper  rope. 

86 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  PLAY 

Paul  fondled  his  fingers  along  the  keys 

An'  tested  her  with  a  chord ; 
Then  lowered  his  head,  an'  he  bent  his  knees 

An'  started  to  play — an',  Lord ! 

The  thunder  it  roared  like  a  Summer  storm, 

Wind  whistled  among  the  boughs ; 
Then  skies  were  blue  an'  the  sun  was  warm — 

In  meddahs  we  heard  the  cows, 
In  meddahs  we  listened  to  tinklin'  bells, 

An'  far  an'  away  we  heard 
The  drippin'  of  water  in  coolin'  wells, 

An'  somewhere  a  trillin'  bird. 

As  soft  as  the  stir  of  an  evenin'  breeze, 

As  loud  as  the  roar  of  falls, 
He  fingered  all  over  the  ivory  keys, 

That  boy  in  the  overhalls. 
And,  when  he  had  stopped  an'  he  raised  his  head 

An'  give  to  his  hair  a  fling, 
We  clapped  an'  we  clapped,  but  he  only  said, 

"I  used  to  could  play  the  thing." 


87 


FUNGI 

They  sit  on  their  silken  cushions  and  say  what  a  terrible 

thing 
To  be  the  wife  of  a  woodsman,  the  queen  of  a  jungle 

king- 
To  dwell  in  an  humble  dwelling,  to  live  on  a  shanty 

floor, 
With  nothing  but  house  and  husband,  and  a  red  rose 

by  the  door. 

But  I,  I  am  sick  of  longing,  and  I,  I  am  dying  here 
For  a  strong  man's  home  in  a  clearing  and  the  love  of 

a  pioneer. 

They  prattle  of  fads  and  fashions,  of  dinners  and  balls 
and  nights, 

These  powdered  and  pretty  fungi,  these  gossiping  para- 
sites ; 

And  men  who  are  working  wonders  and  men  who  are 
doing  deeds 

Must  dally  and  dance  attendance,  and  humor  their 
dainty  needs. 

They  talk  of  their  virgin  virtues,  and  sell  them  for 
clothes  and  food — 

While  some  brave  heart  wants  a  Woman  to  battle  the 
solitude. 


For  there  are  the  woods  to  people,  and  there  is  the  trail  to  make 


FUNGI 

I'm  sick  of  their  silly  chatter,  the  cluck  of  the  idle  hen ; 

Is  none  of  the  work  for  women,  and  all  of  the  work 
for  men  ? 

They  house,  and  they  feed  and  clothe  us,  and  we  who 
have  love  to  sell 

Are  ready  to  be  their  women  if  only  they  pay  us  well. 

But  not  for  the  highest  bidder  God  ever  has  made  the 
bride : 

He  made  us  a  helpmeet  to  him,  to  walk  by  the  work- 
er's side. 

I  long  for  the  tangled  forest,  I  long  for  the  land  that's 
new! 

For  there  is  the  work  for  women,  for  women  and  men 
to  do; 

For  there  are  the  woods  to  people,  and  there  is  the 
trail  to  make, 

For  the  sake  of  the  God  who  made  us,  for  the  sake  of 
a  good  man's  sake ; 

For  that  is  the  work  for  doing,  and  that  is  the  woman 
of  worth — 

And  I'd  follow  my  man,  if  he  asked  me,  to  the  utter- 
most ends  of  the  earth ! 


A  DAY 

This  is  the  end  of  our  day,  my  dear. 

Nay,  I  know  that  the  sun  is  glowing 
High  on  the  mountain  above  us  here — 

'Tis  the  smile  of  a  friend  in  going. 
Warmer  now  on  your  cheek  he  lingers, 

Warmer  now  than  in  day's  high  noon, 
Touching  your  eyes  with  his  tender  fingers, 

Knowing  the  night  shall  come  so  soon. 

This  is  the  light  of  the  hour  of  parting, 

This  is  the  holiest  hour  of  all, 
When  the  tears  from  the  heart  are  starting 

While  the  shades  of  the  evening  fall. 
This  is  the  hour  when  we  closer  cling 

Than  in  our  moment  that  was  the  maddest ; 
This  is  the  fading  of  everything, 

This  is  the  happiest  hour  and  saddest. 

Nay,  you  smile  and  you  look  to  meadows 
Still  a-swim  in  the  shimmering  sun ; 

See  you  not  in  the  woods  the  shadows, 
Telling  us  two  that  our  day  is  done  ? 

90 


A  DAY 

There  are  shades  in  the  merriest  day, 
In  the  woods  there  are  shadows  ever ; 

There  is  an  ending  to  every  way, 
There  is  an  hour  for  us  all  to  sever. 

Life  is  a  parting  and  not  a  meeting, 

A  comradeship  of  a  lonely  mile, 
Only  an  hour  for  a  passing  greeting, 

Only  a  friendship  for  a  while. 
Surely  the  God  that  has  brought  us  twain 

Into  the  world  to  walk  together 
Somewhere  shall  give  us  two  again 

Another  day  in  the  Summer  weather. 


91 


TO  A  CHIPMUNK 

Now  I've  caught  you ;  hush  your  squeakin* ; 

Now  I've  got  you  with  the  goods. 
You're  the  fellah  who's  been  sneakin' 

To  my  shanty  from  the  woods. 
You're  the  fellah  who's  been  makin' 

Such  a  nuisance  of  himself ; 
You're  the  fellah  who's  been  takin* 

Soda  crackers  from  the  shelf. 

Thought  I'd  think  a  rat  had  done  it, 

Thought  you  fooled  me — an'  you  did. 
When  you  heard  me  comin',  run  it 

For  your  burrow  an*  you  hid. 
But  to-day  I  caught  you  squarely, 

Caught  you  with  a  cracker,  too ; 
But  to-day  I  caught  you  fairly. 

Now  what  shall  I  do  with  you  ? 

Don't  you  know  that  diggin*  under 

Some  one's  shanty  any  time, 
Totin'  off  your  little  plunder, 

Mr.  Chipmunk,  is  a  crime? 

92 


TO  A  CHIPMUNK 

Oh,  you're  sorry,  an'  you're  squealin', 
Now  I've  got  you  dead-to-rights ; 

Don't  you  know  it's  wicked  stealin' 
Crackers,  even  little  bites  ? 

Folks  a-swipin'  from  a  cabin 

For  their  crime  had  ought  to  pay, 
Folks  a  neighbor's  goods  a-grabbin' 

Should  be  punished  right  away. 
But  it  seems  there  now  an'  then  are 

People  like  you  that  I  know ; 
Maybe  you're  no  worse  than  men  are— 

So  I  guess  I'll  let  you  go. 


93 


INTERPRETERS 

There  are  some  thoughts  too  sad  to  put  in  words, 
There  are  some  joys  too  deep  for  accents  gay. 

I  think  that  that  is  why  God  makes  the  birds 
Such  things  to  say. 

There  are  some  moments  full  of  melodies 
Too  sweet  for  harps  or  any  human  thing. 

I  think  that  that  is  why  God  makes  the  trees 
Such  songs  to  sing. 

There  are  some  souls  that  down  life's  highway  pass 
Too  fair  to  last  in  hope's  bright  diadem. 

I  think  that  that  is  why  God  makes  the  grass 
To  shelter  them. 

There  are  some  hours  too  lonely  for  the  light, 
When  laughing  sunrays  but  intruders  seem. 

I  think  that  that  is  why  God  makes  the  night, 
To  sleep,  and  dream. 


94 


HOLY  GROUND 

You  have  made  holy  ground  of  this  wild  land  amid  the 
hemlock  trees, 

On  ev'ry  flower  have  left  your  kiss,  have  left  your 
voice  on  ev'ry  breeze. 

You  came  for  but  a  little  while ;  you  went — forever  it 
may  be ; 

But  now  the  sunshine  is  your  smile,  the  stars  your  ten- 
derness to  me. 

You  have  made  holy  ground  of  all  the  paths  we  walked, 

the  ways  we  knew, 
And  pure  as  Heaven's  jasper  wall  the  hills  that  once 

encompassed  you. 
You  have  shut  sin  from  out  this  place,  there  is  no  evil 

word  nor  thought — 
By  your  divinity  of  face  have  here  a  holy  wonder 

wrought. 

You  have  made  holy  ground  of  life  wherever  life  the 

way  may  lead, 
Have  taught  me  honor  in  the  strife  and  decency  in 

ev'ry  deed. 

95 


HOLY  GROUND 

Where'er  I  go,  whatever  the  goal,  however  far  my  feet 

may  stray, 
I  feel  the  presence  of  your  soul  and  know  a  saint  has 

passed  this  way. 


96 


INTERCESSION 

Come  prop  me  on  the  pillow,  nurse, 

So  I  can  see  the  sun ; 
Supposin*  it  should  make  me  worse, 

My  time  is  nearly  done, 
An'  one  day  more  or  one  day  less 

It  takes  or  gives  to  me 
I'll  never  notice,  nurse,  I  guess, 

In  all  eternity. 

A  fellah  never  knows  how  well 

He  likes  that  world  out  there, 
That  world  in  spite  of  all  its  hell, 

Its  work  an'  pain  an'  care, 
Until  he  lays  here  white  an'  weak 

Like  me  upon  a  cot, 
Just  startin'  out  some  world  to  seek 

That  he  has  most  forgot. 

How  green  the  trees  look !  an'  the  grass — 

Yet  they  are  no  more  green 
Than  was  the  trees  I  used  to  pass, 

I  used  to  pass  unseen. 

97 


INTERCESSION 

How  blue  the  sky  looks !  an'  how  deep, 
How  far  away  it  seems! — 

It  seems  a  sort  of  sea  of  sleep 
Beside  a  shore  of  dreams. 

An*  life  seems  such  a  little  while 

When  you  go  out  to  sea — 
Why,  I  remember  ev'ry  smile 

That  ever  come  to  me! 
You  smoothed  the  pillow  where  I  lay 

A  little  while  ago, 
An*  it  was  just  the  other  day 

My  mother  did  it  so. 

My  mother!    Girl,  I  went  away 

An*  never  said  good-by. 
I  never  watched  her  hair  turn  gray, 

I  did  not  see  her — die. 
An*  just  to  think,  she  laid  like  me, 

When  all  her  work  was  done, 
An*  looked  acrost  that  sleepy  sea, 

A-wishin'  for  her  son, 

A-longin*  for  me — an*  I  know 

She's  longin'  for  me  still : 
Beyond  the  sea  where  I  must  go 

She's  standin'  on  a  hill, 

98 


INTERCESSION 

She's  standin'  as  she  used  to  stand, 
When  down  the  path  I'd  roam, 

To  take  her  baby  by  the  hand 
Again  to  lead  him  home. 

An*  God  Himself,  with  all  His  laws, 

Won't  stop  me  passin'  through — 
I  know  He'll  let  me  in,  because 

My  mother  ast  Him  to. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  been  so  rough, 

With  drink  an'  sin  an'  oath — 
An'  yet  her  soul  is  white  enough, 

I  know,  to  save  us  both. 


99 


A  NIGHT  LIKE  THIS 

A  night  like  this,  alone  beside  the  fire, 

The  world  shut  out,  and  by  the  world  shut  in, 
The  woods  around  as  vibrant  as  a  lyre, 

Where  all  sounds  end,  and  where  all  sounds 

begin — 
Ah,  then  the  soul  becomes  a  harp  of  gold 

That  thrills  with  thoughts  as  tender  as  a  kiss, 
With  visions,  dreams,  and  memories  of  old, 

Alone  beside  the  fire  a  night  like  this. 

It  is  so  still  the  very  heart  may  hear 

Its  own  heart  beat :  a  cricket  in  the  grass, 
The  whisper  of  the  nightwind  very  near, 

The  bending  of  a  bough  to  let  it  pass. 
Then  in  the  deep,  mysterious,  silent  wood 

A  sleeping  bird  stirs  softly  in  its  nest. 
The  pine-tree  croons  a  song  of  motherhood, 

Each  fragrant  note  a  lullaby  to  rest. 

Afar  I  hear  the  crystal  waters  strike 

The  little  stones,  melodiously  light. 
There  is,  in  all  the  world,  no  music  like 

The  sound  of  waters  running  in  the  night : 

100 


A  NIGHT  LIKE  THIS 

So  clear,  so  cool,  so  musical,  so  sweet, 
To  weary  hearts  as  welcome  as  the  touch 

Of  velvet  grasses  to  the  weary  feet, 
To  weary  feet  that  labor  overmuch. 

Above  is  spread  the  canopy  of  stars, 

Resplendent  jewels  on  a  robe  of  blue : 
The  pretty  Pleiades,  majestic  Mars, 

That  bathe  the  earth  with  silver  and  with  dew. 
Peace,  peace,  is  written  on  the  azure  dome, 

And  earth  and  heaven  bridge  the  old  abyss. 
Alone  beside  the  fire  the  heart  goes  home, 

Alone  beside  the  fire  a  night  like  this. 

Upon  the  wall  of  green  the  shadows  play, 

As  dies  the  fire  or  rouses  into  flame. 
There  lies  to-morrow's  road  that  leads  away, 

And  here  the  tangled  trail  by  which  I  came. 
A  spark  flies  upward,  glowing  in  the  air, 

To  follow  it  the  vision  upward  turns ; 
Now  it  is  there,  and  now  it  is  not  there ; 

But  still  unchanged  old  Mars  above  me  burns. 

O  Memory,  you  are  like  my  little  fire, 
My  lonely  fire  beside  the  lonely  trail : 

Here  are  the  ashes  of  the  old  desire, 
The  old  desire  enkindled  but  to  fail. 

101 


A  NIGHT  LIKE  THIS 

Old  thoughts  leap  up,  as  flames  a  moment  glow, 

The  resurrection  of  a  holy  kiss ; 
Old  joys,  old  pains,  of  other  nights  I  know, 

Alone  beside  the  fire  a  night  like  this. 

Yea,  other  nights — a  night  like  this  in  June : 

The  same  half-silence,  same  divine  repose ; 
Upon  the  lawn  a  fountain's  tinkling  tune, 

And,  in  the  dark,  the  white  face  of  a  rose — 
A  face  like  hers,  a  face  now  white  with  fear ; 

Upon  the  rose  a  diamond  of  dew, 
Upon  her  face  the  dewdrop  of  a  tear ; 

And  I  was  there,  and  that  white  rose  was  you. 

That  is  the  mightiest  moment  of  a  man, 

The  most  remembered,  holiest  of  all, 
When  doubt  withdrew  and  perfect  faith  began — 

When  first  for  him  he  saw  a  teardrop  fall. 
He  shall  remember,  all  the  weary  miles, 

No  idle  moment  in  the  happy  years 
When  once  his  laughter  laughed  her  into  smiles, 

But  some  sad  hour  he  talked  her  into  tears. 

Half  guilt,  half  glory,  will  that  moment  be : 
A  shame  that  he  had  saddened  one  so  fair ; 

Half  guilt,  half  glory  that  for  such  as  he 

She  bared  her  soul  and  wept,  and  did  not  care. 

102 


A  NIGHT  LIKE  THIS 

He  would  have  suffered  to  have  saved  her  sighs, 
Yet  exquisitely  sweet  that  hour  apart ; 

For  smiles  come  lightly  to  a  woman's  eyes, 
But  sorrow  wells  from  fountains  of  the  heart. 

You  wore  a  scarf  of  silver,  and  I  dreamed 

That  it  was  moonlight  fallen  from  the  blue, 
A  mantle  out  of  heaven  that  be-seemed 

An  angel  out  of  heaven  such  as  you. 
It  lay  across  your  shoulder.  I  have  seen 

A  square  of  moonlight  lying  on  the  grass, 
And  years  rolled  back  that  long  had  rolled  between, 

And  almost  I  have  thought  I  saw  you  pass — 

I  saw  you  pass  in  your  old  beauty,  as 

I  saw  you  pass  my  campfire  even  now ; 
For  this  the  magic  that  the  moonlight  has, 

The  moonlight  has  a  night  like  this,  somehow. 
And  once  the  nightwind  touched  me  on  the  cheek 

(That  other  night  you  touched  it  with  a  kiss) 
And  on  the  wind  I  heard  your  whisper  speak — 

For  such  things  happen  on  a  night  like  this. 

And  I  remember  that  you  looked  not  down 
That  night  in  June,  but  lifted  up  your  face 

Like  that  white  rose  imprisoned  in  the  town 
That  made,  like  you,  the  town  a  holy  place — 

103 


A  NIGHT  LIKE  THIS 

That  you  looked  up  at  me  and  at  the  stars, 
Not  shy  with  shame  but  sad  with  questioning, 

As  though  you  looked  beyond  their  very  bars, 
In  search  of  something  there  to  which  to  cling. 

I  knew,  you  knew,  that  here  had  come  the  end. 

We  heard  the  step  of  him  of  better  right; 
And  I  could  stay  and  play  the  part  of  friend, 

Or  I  could  take  the  trail  I  tread  to-night. 
I  took  the  trail — there  was  no  more  to  know ; 

I  took  the  trail — there  was  no  more  to  do ; 
But  you  walk  with  me  every  trail  I  go, 

And  every  campfire  is  a  dream  of  you. 

And,  if  I  doubt,  yea,  I  who  doubt  no  more, 

The  stars  make  answer,  answer  "Do  we  change  ?" 
The  river  follows  its  accustomed  shore, 

Unaltered  is  the  granite  mountain  range. 
Have  I  not  seen  you  pour  upon  the  stone 

The  sacrifice  of  sorrow,  tenderly? 
A  night  like  this  beside  the  fire  alone 

If  my  heart  ask,  my  own  heart  answers  me. 

A  night  like  this  alone  beside  the  fire 

I  look,  like  you,  beyond  the  wall  of  trees. 

I  ask  the  stars,  the  stars  that  do  not  tire, 
For  what  they  wait  the  weary  centuries. 

104 


A  NIGHT  LIKE  THIS 

I  ask  the  stars,  that  wait  and  alter  not ; 

Perhaps  they  wait,  as  wait  the  souls  of  men, 
Until    some   time,    some   time   more   long   than 
thought, 

When  stars  and  men  may  claim  their  own  again. 


105 


UNDERGROWTH 

It  ain't  the  trees  that  block  the  trail, 

It  ain't  the  ash  or  pine; 
For,  if  you  fall  or  if  you  fail, 

It  was  some  pesky  vine 
That  tripped  you  up,  that  threw  you  down, 

That  caught  you  unawares : 
The  big  things  you  can  walk  aroun' — 

But  watch  the  way  for  snares. 

In  life  it  ain't  the  biggest  things 

That  make  the  hardest  load ; 
It  ain't  the  burden  big  that  brings 

Defeat  upon  the  road. 
Some  fault  you  hardly  knew  you  had 

May  hurt  more  than  you  think — 
Some  little  habit  that  is  bad 

May  put  you  on  the  blink. 


106 


THE  MAN'S  ROAD 

Let  us  sit  here  on  the  porch,  my  son. 

Soon  the  night  will  come  up  the  valley 
Lighting  her  candles  one  by  one, 

Hiding  the  mill  and  the  lumber  alley. 
Soon  the  night  will  come  slowly  stealing 

Over  the  housetops  and  the  street ; 
Soon  the  night  will  come  gently  healing 

All  of  the  hurt  of  the  Summer's  heat. 

You  are  weary,  my  boy,  to-night, 

And  I  know  it  is  not  the  working. 
In  your  heart  that  was  always  light 

There  is  another  sadness  lurking. 
Toil  may  weary  the  limbs  that  bear  you, 

Toil  may  weary  the  arm  that's  strong ; 
But  there  are  other  wears  that  wear  you — 

And  I  have  watched  you,  son,  and  long. 

Something  you  wished  for,  and  you  lost, 
Something,  sonny,  your  life  and  glory ; 

Nothing  now  but  the  cruel  cost — 
No,  you  never  need  tell  the  story. 

107 


THE  MAN'S  ROAD 

But  my  hand,  boy,  is  on  your  shoulder, 
Not  your  father — your  elder  chum; 

You  are  but  younger,  I  but  older — 
And  on  the  man's  road  both  have  come. 

Son,  you  weep  for  your  heart's  desire ; 

Grief  has  folded  her  mantle  o'er  you. 
Now  where  the  son  stands  stood  the  sire 

Maybe,  my  boy,  long  years  before  you. 
For  the  lives  that  are  all  around  us 

Run  like  rivers,  as  still  and  deep. 
Many  see  us,  but  none  may  sound  us ; 

Each  has  his  secret  thought  to  keep. 

Only  the  surface  we  behold — 

If  a  shadow,  a  shadow  fleeting. 
Never  the  story  may  men  unfold 

Far  too  sacred  to  bear  repeating. 
Vexed  perhaps  at  a  little  bother, 

Glad  perhaps  at  a  little  joy — 
This  the  man  that  you  thought  your  father 

Maybe  you  did  not  know  him,  boy. 

Let  us  sit  here  on  the  porch,  my  son. 

Soon  the  night  will  come  up  the  valley 
Lighting  her  candles  one  by  one, 

Hiding  the  mill  and  the  lumber  alley. 

108 


THE  MAN'S  ROAD 

And  my  hand,  boy,  is  on  your  shoulder, 
Not  your  father— your  elder  chum ; 

You  are  but  younger,  I  but  older — 
And  on  the  man's  road  both  have  come. 


109 


CHRISTINA 

Christina  don't  daintily  dress, 

Christina  don't  giggle  an'  gush. 
She  ain't  got  a  dollar,  I  guess; 

Christina  slings  hash  for  her  cush. 

She  sweats  in  the  dinin'-room  rush ; 
She  scolds  now  an'  then  more  or  less ; 
She's  boss  of  the  boardin'-house  mess 

An'  rassles  the  coffee  an'  mush. 

But  where  can  you  show  me  the  dame 

That  has  such  a  hold  on  a  chap? 
There  isn't  a  guy  in  the  game 

But  jumps  when  she  gives  him  a  slap. 

She's  queen  of  the  White  River  map ; 
She  sets  all  the  mill-crew  aflame ; 
For  her  all  the  scrappers  are  tame ; 

For  her  all  the  cowards'll  scrap. 

Christina  has  blue  in  her  eyes, 
Christina  has  red  in  her  hair ; 

It  wouldn't  cause  any  su'prise 
If  maybe  she  happened  to  swear. 

110 


CHRISTINA 

But  noodle  ?    Christina  is  there ; 
She's  sized  up  the  whole  of  the  guys. 
Christina  is  decent  an'  wise ; 

Christina  has  gingham  to  wear. 

Christina,  some  female  in  town 

Would  pity  your  lot,  if  she  knew. 
She  wouldn't  think  much  of  your  gown, 

Think  less  of  the  work  that  you  do. 

She'd  smile  at  your  gingham  of  blue ; 
She'd  laugh  at  your  calico  brown. 
But  you  can  look  up  an'  not  down — 

Christina,  my  hat's  off  to  you ! 


ill 


THREE  MORNINGS 

You  know  the  kind  of  morning  that  it  was 

(There  are  three  mornings  I  remember  well — 
This  was  the  first)  :  The  east  a  thing  of  gauze 

Where  one  by  one  the  filmy  curtains  fell, 
So  delicately  fell,  the  morning  light 

Came  now  from  nowhere,  only  grew  and  grew — 
A  little  more  of  day  and  less  of  night 

Until  the  west  and  east  were  equal  blue. 

That  was  the  morning  we  came  driving  home 

After  the  weekly  dance  at  Coopersville, 
When  first  the  grayness  stole  across  the  dome ; 

Remember  it  was  three  we  danced  until? 
We  did  not  hurry ;  up  the  woodland  road 

I  let  the  old  horse  amble  as  he  would ; 
For  driving  lovers  seldom  use  the  goad, 

And  life  that  morning  was  so  very  good. 

There  may  be  mortals  who  have  never  seen 

A  morning  in  the  wilderness  arise, 
Or  learned  the  hundred  shades  there  are  of  green, 

The  hundred  tints  of  azure  in  the  skies. 

112 


THREE  MORNINGS 

They  may  know  Nature,  but  they  do  not  know 
The  inner  secrets  that  she  will  disclose, 

The  thousand  little  beauties  she  will  show, 
When  turn  the  walls  of  black  to  walls  of  rose. 

To  hear  the  matin  twitter  of  a  bird 

Is  sweeter  music  than  his  proudest  lay ; 
Some  mystery  a  distant  branch  has  stirred, 

Some  woodland  signal  of  returning  day. 
And  now  another  sings  a  sleepy  note, 

Some  little  hidden  singer  answers  him, 
The  low,  hushed  music  of  a  waking  throat, 

Soft  as  the  singing  in  cathedrals  dim. 

And  you  were  very  weary,  I  recall, 

And  I  was  very  silent  to  your  mood, 
A  little  closer  drew  your  little  shawl, 

And  thought  the  thought  a  waking  pigeon  cooed. 
Then  on  my  shoulder  fell  a  golden  head, 

That  head  you  held  so  proudly  other  times ; 
The  morning  said  the  things  I  would  have  said, 

And  said  them  better  than  a  poet's  rimes. 

That  was  our  mating,  mating  without  speech — 
No  pledge,  no  promise,  no  vehement  vow ; 

The  morning  seemed  into  our  hearts  to  reach ; 
We  always  after  understood,  somehow. 

113 


THREE  MORNINGS 

There  are  three  mornings  I  remember  well, 
Three  mornings  that  have  been  the  best  and 

worst, 

When  I  have  sipped  of  heaven,  tasted  hell — 
There  were  three  mornings — this  one  was  the 
first. 

A  year ;  another  morning ;  by  a  fire 

I  woke  to  feel  a  shiver  in  the  breeze; 
Above  a  pine  sighed  dismally,  the  sire 

Of  all  the  circle  of  his  somber  trees. 
An  Indian  runner  loping  down  the  hill, 

Red-visage,  sullen,  silent,  swollen  eyes, 
Fit  messenger  to  carry  tale  so  ill — 

There  was  no  blue  that  morning  in  the  skies. 

You  had  grown  weary  of  your  wedded  life, 

The  constant  quarrel  and  the  endless  hurt, 
The  things  I  said  that  cut  you  like  a  knife, 

The  husband's  heel  that  ground  you  in  the  dirt. 
I  might  return,  but  you  were  through  with  me, 

The  two  who  had  been  one  again  were  two. 
I  looked  afar  above  the  murmuring  tree : 

But  in  the  sky  that  morning  was  no  blue. 

114 


THREE  MORNINGS 

Then  from  the  west  there  came  a  puff  of  rain, 

Not  rain  that  comes  majestic  in  its  might : 
The  slow,  damp  fog  that  hides  the  hill  and  plain, 

A  wall  of  gray  to  bar  the  morning  light. 
The  fire  burned  sickly,  heavy  hung  the  smoke ; 

No  bird  attempted  song  in  hour  so  sad ; 
Beneath  its  weight  of  wet  a  sapling  broke, 

And  east  and  west  no  hope  of  morning  had. 

Forgetting  rain,  the  rain  I  could  not  feel, 

I  sat  me  down  upon  the  sodden  ground 
And  read  your  letter  like  a  knife  of  steel ; 

I  turned  your  knife  of  steel  around,  around. 
The  runner  took  his  dollar  with  no  sign 

And  left  me  to  my  thoughts  and  dying  fire, 
My  dying  fire  and  dying  hopes  of  mine, 

When  all  things  died  except  the  old  desire. 

It  was  not  many  mornings  after  that, 

That  other  morning.  All  the  hours  of  night 
The  waters  rose  upon  the  marshy  flat, 

The  maddened  river,  like  a  horse  in  flight 
Rolled  down  upon  the  village  by  the  mill, 

Rolled  down  upon  the  little  sawmill  town ; 
And  some  there  were  took  refuge  on  the  hill, 

And  some  there  were  could  only  pray  and  drown. 

115 


THREE  MORNINGS 

And  then  I  found  you,  when  upon  the  east 

One  trembling  finger  wrote  a  word  of  dawn 
And  then  a  sentence,  till  the  torrent  ceased, 

The  gray  sky  opened  and  the  night  was  gone. 
And  this  made  such  a  morning  glorious, 

The  most  remembered  in  my  memory, 
That,  while  I  sought  you  madly,  madly  thus, 

I  came  upon  you  seeking  after  me. 

That  morn  we  watched  the  troubled  waters  fall ; 

The  crest  was  over  and  the  danger  past. 
That  was  the  morning  holiest  of  all, 

For  we  had  learned  the  truth  of  it  at  last. 
Each  wrong,  each  right,  each  foolish  in  a  way, 

We  wrote  "forgotten"  on  our  ills  of  old, 
And  saw  the  sunrays  of  returning  day 

Change  skies  to  blue,  and  life  again  to  gold. 

Upon  the  hill  we  built  our  house  again, 

The  sure,  high  hill  that  floods  could  never  touch, 
And  loved  a  little  better  ever  then, 

Who  loved  too  little  when  we  loved  too  much. 
Upon  the  solid  rock  of  faith  we  stand, 

And,  gray  the  cloud  or  sunny  blue  the  skies, 
We  meet  them  heart  to  heart  and  hand  in  hand — 

For  all  our  mornings  three  have  made  us  wise. 


116 


THE  WOODLAND 

If  you  would  love  the  woodland,  it 

Must  be  a  living  thing  to  you — 
A  comrade  at  whose  feet  you  sit 

And  look  together  at  the  blue. 

You  must  love  sun  as  flowers  do 
The  god  of  day ;  the  kiss  of  rain 

Must  be  as  healing  sweet  to  you 
As  to  the  daisy  on  the  plain. 

You  must  go  faring  without  fear 

The  woodland  wild,  however  far — 
In  some  new  path  a  pioneer, 

And  for  your  compass  but  a  star. 

You  must  lie  down  with  door  ajar 
Beside  the  midnight  waters'  hem, 

You  must  lie  down  where  wild  things  are 
And  feel  companionship  with  them. 

You  must  delight  in  that  delight 
The  bud  enjoys  when  first  it  knows 

The  passing  of  the  Winter  night 
And  wakes  to  find  itself  a  rose. 

117 


THE  WOODLAND 

You  must  feel  pleasures  such  as  those, 
The  joy  of  living  in  the  land, 

And,  as  the  waking  leaves  unclose, 
Must  feel  your  petaled  soul  expand. 


118 


IF  FORTUNE  CAME 

If  old  Dame  Fortune  came  to-day  up  in  the  timber  on  a 

hike 
An'  told  me  I  could  have  my  way,  have  any  treasure 

that  I  like— 
I  wonder  just  what  I  would  say,  for  just  what  blessin' 

I  would  strike. 

Offhand  I  guess  I'd  ask  for  cash,  for  money  is  a  handy 

thing. 
I've  had  enough  to  make  a  splash  or  two  myself  in 

town  in  Spring ; 
I've  drawed  my  stake  an*  made  a  flash  an'  had  my 

little  yearly  fling. 

Offhand  I  guess  I'd  ask  for  dough,  for  that's  what  most 

men  think  of  first — 
The  thing  that  keeps  us  peggin'  so,  the  thirst  that's  like 

a  whisky  thirst ; 
The  thing  that's  helped  a  few  I  know,  an'  twice  as 

many  others  cursed. 

119 


IF  FORTUNE  CAME 

I'd  ask  a  million  bucks  or  two,  so  I  could  ditch  the  tim- 
ber tall 

An*  know  that  it  an*  me  was  through,  the  corduroy 
an'  four-turn  haul — 

That  all  that  I  would  have  to  do  was  spend  my  money, 
that  was  all. 

I'd  buy  myself  a  house  in  town  with  Brussels  carpet 

on  the  floor ; 
I'd  quit  the  booze  an'  settle  down  an'  never  hit  it  any 

more; 
I'd  put  on  style,  an'  do  it  brown — for  that's,  I  guess, 

what  money's  for. 

I'd  set  an'  loaf  the  time  away,  I'd  start  again  a-livin' 

white ; 
I'd  can  this  dirty  pipe  of  clay  an'  get  a  meersch'um 

that  was  right; 
I'd  eat  my  old  three  squares  a  day,  an'  sleep  a  good 

eight  hours  at  night. 

But  some  vacation,  so  to  speak,  I'd  like  to  have  it  now 

an'  then — 
To  leave  my  cash  an'  take  a  sneak  up  here  along  with 

other  men 
An',  say,  put  in  about  a  week  in  this  old  lumber  camp 

again. 

120 


I'd  like  to  just  come  ivalkin'  in  an'  find  you  all  a-settin'  here 


IF  FORTUNE  CAME 

I'd  like  to  just  come  walkin'  in  an*  find  you  all  a-set- 

tin'  here, 
An'  wash  in  that  old  pail  of  tin,  an*  drink  a  cup  of 

coffee  clear, 
An*  then  git  out  an*  work  like  sin,  just  as  I've  done 

for  forty  year. 

I'd  like  to  set  beside  the  fire  upon  the  norway  deacon- 
seat 

An*  listen  to  some  sawed-off  liar  his  yarns  remarkable 
repeat ; 

Or  maybe  go  an'  pull  a  briar,  an1  then  come  in  an'  eat 
an*  eat. 

An'  let  me  tell  you,  my  good  dame,  I'd  have  you 

clearly  understand 
If  I  can't  mootch  it  just  the  same  to  road  an'  camp 

an'  timberland — 
I  wouldn't  take  it,  if  you  came  with  twenty  million  in 

your  hand ! 


121 


ONE 

There  runs  a  pathway  by  the  hedge 

And  up  across  the  clearing, 
A  ribbon  through  the  woodland's  edge, 

Appearing,  disappearing, 
That  fades  beyond  the  hills  of  gray 

Where  red  the  west  is  burning ; 
And  many  men  have  passed  this  way, 

And  few  who  came  returning. 

Full  many  men  have  followed  it, 

The  path  beside  the  shanty ; 
And  some  there  were  with  wealth  or  wit, 

And  some  who  sang  a  chanty ; 
And  some  were  sad  and  some  were  gay, 

And  there  were  some  who  flattered ; 
Yes,  many  men  have  passed  this  way — 

But  only  one  who  mattered. 


,22 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  WOODS  WITH  A  FRIEND 

The  wealth  of  a  wonderful  hall 

With  splendors  of  painting  and  gold, 
The  pride  of  a  tapestried  wall 

Or  portraiture  faded  and  old, 
The  treasures  of  age  and  of  art, 

The  luxuries  riches  can  lend, 
No  comfort  will  bring  to  the  heart 

Like  a  camp  in  the  woods  with  a  friend. 

The  swallows  are  singing  by  day, 

The  roses  are  rioting  near ; 
A  bob-o-link  over  the  way 

Is  adding  his  carol  of  cheer. 
The  road  may  be  stony  and  hot, 

But  there  is  a  trail  at  the  end 
That  leads  to  life's  pleasantest  spot — 

Just  a  camp  in  the  woods  with  a  friend. 

And  then  come  the  eve  and  the  stars, 
And  then  come  the  dark  and  the  moon ; 

You've  lighted  your  glowing  cigars, 
You  warble  together  a  tune. 

123 


A  CAMP  IN  THE  WOODS  WITH  A  FRIEND 

The  insects  are  flashing  in  flight, 
The  branches  so  tenderly  bend — 

And  you  are  at  home  for  the  night 
In  a  camp  in  the  woods  with  a  friend. 


124 


HIS  EYES 

Right  where  you  sit  she  sat 

That. last,  last  night  we  knew — 

With  roses  in  her  hat, 

A  dress  of  blue; 

And,  just  like  you, 

She  would  not  have  a  light 

But  just  the  fire, 

And  all  outdoors  was  night, 

And  night  a  lyre 

That  played  a  hundred  tunes, 

Old  Junes, 

Old  Junes  and  new. 

It  seemed  that  all  the  songs  I  ever  heard 

Were  echoed  in  the  song  of  just  one  bird 

Who  would  not  stop  when  westward 

sank  the  sun, 
Who  would  not  stop  until  his  song 

was  done, 
His  singing  through. 

But  still  the  musk 

Came  to  us  through  the  dusk, 

And  low  we  talked  about  another  day 

When  she  would  go  away. 

125 


HIS  EYES 

"To-morrow,  I  suppose" — 
And  that  was  far. 
"To-morrow" — no  one  knows 
How  near  they  are. 

The  camp 

Was  sleeping — hunyack,  Injun,  tramp 
And  all  the  crew. 
And  I  sat  here 
And  she  sat  there  like  you — 
So  near, 

And  yet  so  far  she  seemed  to  be, 
For  mountains  lay  between  the  maid 
and  me. 

There  was  no  light. 

She  seemed  to  fade  into  the  night 

As  goes  a  friend, 

Up  hill,  beyond  the  bend, 

And  out  of  sight. 

Then  we  sat  silent ;  silent  so 

She  rose  to  go. 

We  said  good-by, 

And  I, 

I  dared  not  sigh, 

I  dared  not  speak  a  word. 

126 


HIS  EYES 

The  valley  does  not  wed  the  sky, 

The  weed  the  bird. 

Next  day  her  father's  car 

Fell  like  a  falling  star 

Beyond  the  hill 

And  left  me  standing  still 

With  foolish  notions  thrilling  through 

my  head — 
Thank  God,  unsaid. 

And,  as  the  eve 

Faded  that  night  of  nights — 

A  warning,  I  believe — 

A  little  later  came  the  accident 

And  dimmer  lights 

And  woods  that  went 

In  deeper  dark, 

Until  the  spark 

Fled  from  my  eyes  and  left  on  earth 

behind 

Only  her  lovely  image  on  my  mind — 
And  I  was  blind. 

I  am  the  filer  here,  a  handy  man. 

I  can  feel 

As  few  men  can 

To  sharpen  steel- 

127 


HIS  EYES 

I  file  the  saws 

And  play  my  little  part, 

Because 

To  file  a  saw  or  hang  an  ax  is  art. 

I  can  not  see, 

But  know  the  woods,  the  trees, 

I  can  not  see, 

Yet  hear  their  melodies. 

And  so 

I  can  not  see  you,  girl,  and  yet  you  seem 

The  living  presence  of  a  blind  man's 

dream. 

I  can  not  see — and  yet  you  seem  to  bring 
The  pulse  of  old,  the  pain,  and  everything. 
You  touch  me — kiss  me — God,  can  it  be  true ! 
And  you  are  you? 

I  can  not  see, 

Yet  see,  who  could  not  see  before; 

And  you  shall  be 

My  eyes  forevermore. 


128 


THE  ONE-SPOT 

Rusty,  an*  greasy,  an'  not  very  beautiful — 

Holes  in  her  fire-box,  an'  scale  in  her  tubes — 
Ready  to  rock  in  a  manner  undutiful, 

Rollin'  the  rookies  an'  scarin'  the  rubes ; 
Loose  in  her  bearin's,  an'  loose  in  her  habit,  too, 

Shakin',  an'  quakin',  an*  rattlety-bang, 
Needin'  some  paint  an'  some  bolts,  an'  some  babbitt, 
too — 

But  she's  the  pride  of  the  whole  of  the  gang. 

Rusty,  an'  greasy,  an'  dirty  she  maybe  is, 

Wantin'  some  paint  an'  a  week  in  the  shops, 
Cranky  perhaps  as  a  colicky  baby  is, 

Spittin'  exhaust  at  the  track-layin'  wops — 
But  she  can  climb  any  grade  that's  in  front  of  her, 

Hold  on  a  hill  any  train  that's  behind : 
Thirty-five  loads  is  the  regular  stunt  of  her ; 

Tack  on  a  loader  an'  she'll  never  mind. 

Railroadin'  here  ain't  the  transcontinental  kind — 
Fifty-pound  rail  is  the  best  that  you  get; 

Bridges  up  here  ain't  the  nice,  ornamental  kind — 
Just  a  few  stringers  a-crossin'  the  wet. 

129 


THE  ONE-SPOT 

Humps  in  the  track,  that  has  many  a  crick  to  it, 
Rails  that  are  spread,  an*  old  ties  that  are  knurled 

But,  turn  her  loose  with  a  load,  an*  she'll  stick  to  it, 
Stick  to  the  rottenest  road  in  the  world ! 


130 


THE  ASPEN 

Where  all  the  rivers  northward  run 

Beyond  the  Height  of  Land, 
And  where  the  law  is  just  a  gun, 

The  judge  a  steady  hand, 
The  feeble  aspen  of  the  drouth 

Becomes  a  giant  thing, 
The  quivering  aspen  of  the  South 

Becomes  an  arctic  king. 

And  so  the  man  who  journeys  where 

The  road  to  Hudson's  lies, 
His  wine  the  sharp  Canadian  air, 

His  compass  in  the  skies, 
Grows  stronger  like  the  aspen  tree 

That  in  the  North  appears — 
Takes  on  the  stature  presently 

Of  arctic  pioneers. 


131 


BEHIND  A  SPIRE 

It  ain't  our  wickedness  alone 

That  keeps  us  out  of  church ; 
An'  so,  before  you  cast  a  stone 

An*  leave  us  in  the  lurch, 
Just  see  if  somethin'  ain't  about 

Besides  our  mortal  sin 
That  keeps  us  still  a-holdin'  out 

When  preachin*  asts  us  in. 

We  used  to  have  (I  won't  say  where) 

An  elder  in  the  place 
Who  led  so  loud  in  Sunday  pray'r 

It  shook  the  throne  of  grace. 
But  all  the  week  to  feed  his  game 

The  busted  swampers  went ; 
He  hailed  the  power  of  Jesus'  name 

An'  soaked  'em  twelve  per  cent. 

Perhaps  if  eight  had  satisfied 

That  shoutin'  hypocrite, 
Some  scoffin'  swamper  might  have  tried 

To  straighten  up  a  bit ; 

132 


BEHIND  A  SPIRE 

But  we  dislike  the  man  who  tries 

To  give  us  title  clear 
To  any  mansion  in  the  skies 

An'  grab  our  title  here. 


133 


FORTY 

Up  the  hill  to  Holton  is  a  merry  climb ; 
I  have  walked  to  Holton  many  is  the  time: 
Dew  upon  the  grasses,  roses  by  the  road, 
Till  you  never  notice  if  you  have  a  load. 

Down  the  hill  from  Holton  is  a  merry  way, 
Coming  home  from  Holton  at  the  close  of  day : 
Straight  ahead  the  sunset,  straight  ahead  the  stars, 
And  the  beacon  burning  at  the  open  bars. 

Up  the  hill  to  forty  was  a  merry  tramp : 
Daisies  on  the  hillside,  lilies  in  the  damp, 
Friends  to  walk  beside  me  all  the  busy  years, 
Sharing  of  my  laughter,  sharing  of  my  tears. 

Down  the  hill  from  forty,  may  it  be  the  best ! — 
Walking  to  the  refuge  waiting  in  the  west : 
Straight  ahead  the  sunset,  straight  ahead  the  stars, 
And  the  beacon  burning  at  the  open  bars. 


134 


THE  MAN  WHO  ALWAYS  WON 

He 

Was  poor  as  me, 

An'  I  was  poor 

As  any  beaver  workin'  in  the  wet, 

Excursionin*  ashore 

His  grub  to  get. 

We  dug  like  beavers,  too, 

As  workers  do. 

But  now  I  know 

That  all  I  worked  for  was  a  bed  an*  food, 

But  he  had  dreams 

An',  in  the  solitude, 

He  saw  the  gleams 

Of  golden  dollars  grow 

To  riches  even  in  the  long  ago. 

The  thing  success 

That  come  to  many  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  the  luck  that  envy  says  it  was — 

It  had  a  cause. 

We  both  were  young, 

We  both  were  young  an*  strong. 

135 


THE  MAN  WHO  ALWAYS  WON 

I  worked  as  hard, 

I  know  I  worked  as  long, 

But  dollars  clung 

To  him.  Long  afterward 

I  knew  the  reason  why : 

He  had  a  dream,  an*  not  a  dream  had  I. 

First  thing  I  knew 

He  was  the  boss.  Yet,  of  the  two, 

I  was  the  better  cruiser.  I  could  cruise 

A  tract  of  timber  an'  the  sections  choose 

Where  wealth  was  waitin'  in  the  hills  of  pine ; 

So  bossin'  was  his  job,  an'  cruisin'  mine. 

I  cruised  for  him  an',  when  my  cash  was  gone, 

Was  mighty  grateful  that  he  took  me  on. 

An'  then  the  woman  come — they  always  come 

In  each  man's  life, 

To  some  a  wife 

An'  just  a  dream  to  some — 

An'  that  was  when 

I  started  dreamin'  dreams  like  other  men. 

She  was  no  timid,  blue-eyed,  baby  thing ; 

She  was  a  queen,  fit  for  a  forest  king, 

She  was  a  woman  big  of  hip  an'  arm, 

A  farmer's  daughter  on  a  buckwheat  farm. 

On  the  trail 

I  used  to  wonder  why  some  fellahs  fail 

An'  others  win ; 

136 


THE  MAN  WHO  ALWAYS  WON 

An'  I  made  up  my  mind 

The  reason  I  would  find 

An'  buckle  in. 

But  then  again 

There  was  the  difference  in  different  men: 

He  had  the  start 

In  dream-in'  an'  in  doin' — an*  a  heart 

Was  like  a  stand  of  pine, 

To  take  when  I  had  found  it.  She  was  mine, 

My  sky,  my  sun, 

An'  yet  he  won. 

I  did  not  kill  him,  curse  him,  even  hate — 

For  it  was  fate. 

But  sometimes  when  I  leave  the  woods  a  spell, 

An'  it  is  seldom,  an'  the  fellahs  tell 

How  well  he's  done, 

The  man  who  always  won, 

Somehow  all  right  it  seems — 

For  he  had  dreams. 

One  time  I  even  suppered  at  his  place, 

When  in  to  talk  about  some  timberland, 

A  house  so  grand 

I  wondered  that  I  ever  had  the  face 

To  think  that  she 

Would  take  the  likes  of  me. 

137 


THE  MAN  WHO  ALWAYS  WON 

Yet  all  the  same, 

There  come  a  thought  that  took  away  the 

shame 

That  I  had  dared 
To  want  her,  raven-haired — 
A  thought  that  these, 
The  luxuries, 

The  gold,  the  glass,  the  auto,  an'  the  fur, 
The  costly  goods, 
An*  husband,  too, 
A  cruiser  in  the  woods 
Had  given  her — 
Although  she  never  knew. 


138 


DISCOVERY 

There  lurks  in  every  breast  some  of  the  fire 

That  sent  Columbus  daring  unknown  seas, 
There  lurks  in  every  human  heart  desire 

To  find  new  continents.  To  such  as  these 
The  woodland  is  a  world,  and  continents 

They  who  go  seeking  shall  as  surely  find 
As  he  who  scorned  an  earth's  experience 

And  left  established  error  far  behind. 

Let  us  go  forth,  as  great  Columbus  sailed, 

And  we  shall  find  new  archipelagoes — 
Sequestered  paths  that  only  deer  have  trailed, 

Perhaps  another  continent,  who  knows? — 
Some  cloistered  valley  far  from  man  removed, 

Some  fragrant  clearing  hidden  in  the  firs, 
Some  lily  garden  man  has  never  loved, 

Waiting  our  coming,  the  discoverers. 

We  may  not  find  Americas,  but  we 

Shall  feel  the  thrill  that  thrilled  a  greater  breast- 
Perhaps  a  mountain  that  will  glimpse  the  sea, 

Beneath  a  stump  perhaps  a  partridge  nest ; 

139 


DISCOVERY 

We  shall  make  sail  across  the  trackless  green, 
We  shall  uncover  riches  in  the  flower, 

We  shall  behold  new  beauties  now  unseen — 
Yea,  we  shall  be  Columbus  for  an  hour. 


140 


THE  TIMES 

You  hear  a  plenty  of  complaint 
About  the  times.    Folks  say  they  ain't 
As  good  as  times  had  ought  to  be ; 
But  why  they  ain't  they  can't  agree. 
Some  blame  the  trusts,  an'  others  blame 
The  agitation  on  the  same 
That  keeps  the  public  mind  aflame. 

An*  there's  the  tariff ;  that  is  what 
Some  say  it  is,  an'  some  it's  not. 
The  customer  will  tell  you  why 
The  cost  of  livin'  is  so  high — 
The  tariff,  blame  it !    Bye-an'-bye 
The  factory  whose  trade  is  slow 
Will  tell  you  why  the  price  is  low — 
The  tariff,  blame  it !  made  it  so. 

Well,  I  dunno.    It  seems  to  me 

That  somethin'  else  the  cause  may  be — 

That  there  may  be  some  reason  plain 

Why  things  cloud  up  an'  look  like  rain. 

I  rather  guess  that  maybe  you 

An*  me  have  more  or  less  to  do 

141 


THE  TIMES 

With  makin'  times.    It  ain't  the  chaps 
In  Washington  alone,  perhaps, 
That  make  'em  good  or  make  'em  dull 
An'  money  scarce  or  plentiful. 

Of  course  they  help.    When  times  is  good 

They're  glad  to  have  it  understood 

They  fixed  things  like  they  said  they  would. 

Perhaps  they  did,  perhaps  they  do ; 

Perhaps  they  did  the  other,  too — 

For  hard  times  never  hit  the  purse 

But  some  fool  law  can  make  'em  worse. 

I  rather  guess  that  you  an*  me 
Make  panics  an'  prosperity. 
An',  if  a  quiet  time  should  come 
An'  people  have  to  figger  some 
To  make  the  same  old  two  ends  meet 
An'  furnish  stuff  to  wear  an*  eat, 
That  you  an'  me  an'  such  as  us 
Made  business  so,  an'  matters  thus, 
An'  not  some  legislatin'  cuss. 

Now  confidentially,  my  friends, 

Not  what  he  makes  but  what  he  spends 

It  is  that  separates  the  ends 

Man  has  such  trouble  makin'  meet — 

An'  that's  the  kernel  in  the  wheat. 

142 


THE  TIMES 

You  know  it  sort  of  seems  of  late 
That  we  are  goin'  quite  a  gait — 
Are  makin'  cash  hand  over  fist 
With  ev'ry  business  on  the  list. 
An'  actin'  like  (an'  quite  a  bit) 
A  drunken  sailor  spendin'  it. 

I  know,  I  know,  when  men  git  old 
They  like  to  set  around  an'  scold 
An'  talk  about  the  good  old  days 
When  people  followed  better  ways. 
An'  so,  whatever  I  may  say, 
You'll  rigger  it's  because  the  gray 
Is  creepin'  slowly  through  my  hair — 
Because  the  snow  is  driftin'  there. 

But  I  remember,  when  a  boy 
We  had  a  decent  share  of  joy — 
I'll  bet  I  laffed  as  often  then 
As  do  these  later  gentlemen 
Who  hang  around  the  blazin'  bars 
Or  hit  it  up  in  auto  cars. 

We  never  seen  a  cabaret ; 
We  never  drunk  a  night  away ; 
We  never  gambled  till  the  sun — 
An'  yet,  we  had  a  little  fun. 

143 


THE  TIMES 

Why,  boy,  I  look  along  the  years 
Of  childhood  with  the  pioneers, 
An'  memory  is  sweet  with  tears. 

I  see  it  now :  the  little  town, 
A  road  of  plank  that  wandered  down 
A  street  we  called  "The  Avenue," 
A  sawdust  city  through  an'  through — 
Oh,  it  would  never  do  for  you! 

The  girls  wore  gingham,  calico, 

An'  other  weaves  you  never  know. 

Their  bonnets  saved  their  cheeks  from  tan, 

But  raised  the  dickens  with  a  man. 

For  blue  eyes  peepin'  from  a  poke, 

A  white  neck  in  a  modest  yoke, 

Were  twice  as  purty,  seems  to  me, 

As  laigs  that  all  the  world  can  see. 

At  six  the  sawmill  whistle  blew ; 
With  swingin'  pails  the  sawmill  crew 
Come  walkin'  up  the  sawdust  hill 
From  Ryerson's  or  Mason's  mill 
Or  White  an'  Swan's  or  anywhere 
A  pathway  met  the  thoroughfare. 
Soft  eyes  of  blue  an*  eyes  of  brown 
Were  watchin'  in  the  windowed  town 

144 


THE  TIMES 

An'  blushed,  an'  pulled  the  curtains  down. 
An'  then  the  evenin'  an'  the  moon ! 
Why,  anywhere  it's  night  an'  June 
An'  moonlight  is  a  place  to  spoon ! 

They  hadn't  made  the  auto  then — 
A  lucky  thing  for  common  men 
Like  us,  with  just  an  envelope 
Each  thirty  days,  an'  love,  an'  hope. 
In  fact  a  girl  felt  purty  big 
Whose  fellah  hired  a  liv'ry  rig 
An'  drove  her  to  a  country  dance — 
That  was  enough  extravagance. 

But,  lookin'  backward  to  those  nights, 
They  seem  as  full  of  love's  delights 
As  life  could  be — perhaps  because 
Man's  money  don't  make  lovers'  laws. 
For  I  have  set  upon  a  stump 
An'  heard  the  heart  inside  me  thump 
As  you  who  Peacock  Alley  sweep 
Have  never  felt  your  pulses  leap. 
Or  I  have  let  the  old  horse  walk 
An'  took  her  hand  in  mine  to  talk, 
An*  sneaked  an  arm  around  her  waist 
An'  held  her  only  half -embraced — 

145 


THE  TIMES 

Yes,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  play, 
For  fear  she'd  take  my  arm  away. 
An'  I  have  let  the  ribbons  fall 
An'  never  drove  the  horse  at  all 
An'  drawn  her  closer — Why,  my  boy, 
Is  money  all  there  is  of  joy? 
Is  love  across  a  glass  of  wine 
A  better,  bigger  love  than  mine, 
In  that  old  buggy  'neath  the  pine? 

How  I  have  wandered !    My  intent 
To  speak  in  this  here  argument 
Concerned  the  times.    When  times  is  slow 
It's  me  an'  you  that  makes  'em  so. 
But  people  now  have  come  to  prize 
The  thing  alone  that  money  buys  ; 
We  all  have  learnt  to  advertise — 
The  more  it  costs  the  more  we  boast, 
An*  he  is  best  who  spends  the  most. 
We  slave  to  earn  like  maddened  moles ; 
Within  the  earth  we  dig  our  holes 
An'  wallow  there  an'  sell  our  souls. 
We  climb  the  air,  we  scrape  the  sky, 
An*  wind  an'  storm  an'  God  defy. 
The  cottage  that  we  used  to  own 
We've  traded  for  a  thing  of  stone. 

146 


THE  TIMES 

We  house  our  babes  in  caves  of  steel 
An*  never  teach  'em  there  to  kneel 
An'  love  of  home  an'  hearth  to  feel. 

Why,  home  meant  somethin'  in  the  days 
Us  graybeards  love  to  set  an'  praise. 
You  can't  make  homes  of  city  flats 
With  hallway  rows  an'  back  yard  spats, 
Where  men  an'  women,  kids  an'  cats, 
Are  huddled  on  a  single  floor, 
With  ev'ry  noise  a  call  to  war. 
You've  got  to  own  the  house,  the  ground, 
An'  everything  that  grows  around. 
A  path  that  wanders  to  a  gate, 
Where  little  children  come  to  wait 
When  father's  comin'  happens  late, 
That's  home — Home  ain't  in  dinin'  out 
An*  eatin'  ev'ry  where  about; 
Home  ain't  electric  lights,  the  flash 
Of  di'monds,  an'  the  music's  crash — 
For  life  is  somethin'  more  than  cash. 

The  times  ?    Yes,  I  was  talkin'  of 
The  times.    You  sort  of  laff  at  love, 
An'  so  we'll  talk  of  dollars,  friend — 
A  language  you  can  comprehend. 

147 


THE  TIMES 

Well,  times  git  tighter  now  an'  then — 
They  may  git  tighter  here  again ; 
An'  then  we  pay  the  price,  my  boy, 
For  all  our  artificial  joy. 
The  joys  of  old  made  no  one  poor, 
But  made  the  country  more  secure. 
This  land  was  builded  on  a  rock 
Of  corncob  pipe  an'  gingham  frock. 
But  now,  when  trouble  comes,  my  lad, 
When  times  git  tight  an'  business  bad, 
We're  little  fixed  in  soul  or  purse 
To  meet  conditions  that  are  worse. 
We've  spent  our  money,  spilled  our  blood, 
An'  built  no  ark  to  ride  the  flood 
When  trouble  comes.    An'  then  we  quit 
An'  talk  about  the  cause  of  it. 
We  blame  some  other  fellah's  game, 
When  we,  ourselves,  are  all  to  blame. 
The  times  ?   It's  us  that  makes  the  same ! 


148 


KEEP  YOUR  EARS  AHEAD 

On  the  tote-road,  on  the  street,  on  the  trail  or  tram, 
I  have  known  a  hoss  or  two,  teamster  that  I  am: 
Steppers  with  Kentucky  blood,  ordinary  plugs, 
Ev'ry  kind  of  animile  ever  wearin'  tugs; 
Mustang  pony,  Percheron,  goer,  thoroughbred — 
But  the  only  hoss  worth  while  kept  his  ears  ahead. 

When  a  plug  becomes  a  plug  ain't  when  he  gits  old; 
For  a  plug  may  be  a  plug  from  the  day  he's  foaled. 
When  a  critter  to  the  back  slants  them  ears  of  his, 
Then  you  know  the  bloomin'  brute,  know  the  brute  he  is. 
For  he'll  either  bite  or  balk,  loaf,  or  bolt  instead; 
Never  trust  a  hoss  unless  he  keeps  his  ears  ahead. 

But  a  hoss  that  is  a  hoss,  of  the  proper  kind, 
Doesn't  listen  all  the  while  for  the  whip  behind. 
He  is  lookin'  down  the  road,  sniffin',  an'  all  that — 
He  is  takin'  interest  in  the  work  he's  at. 
Work  is  joy  to  such  a  nag,  farm  or  fancy  bred; 
Life  is  somethin'  to  a  hoss  that  keeps  his  ears  ahead. 

149 


KEEP  YOUR  EARS  AHEAD 

Man  is  somethin'  like  a  boss,  with  his  work  to  do; 
On  the  tough  old  trail  of  life  how  is  it  with  you? 
Do  you  put  your  shoulder  then  in  the  collar  square? 
Of  the  load  we  have  to  pull,  do  you  pull  a  share? 
Are  you  full  of  pep  an'  steam,  or  is  your  spirit  dead? 
Are  you  livin'  in  the  past,  or  are  your  ears  ahead  ? 


150 


THE  WIDOWHOOD  OF  DOUBT 

There  is  a  widowhood  of  doubt,  there  is  a  deeper  hurt 

than  death — 
A  life  of  always  looking  out,  of  listening  with  halted 

breath : 
A  sudden  likeness  in  the  street,  a  sound  familiar  in  the 

tread 
Of  some  one  passing — so  to  meet  some  daily  vision  of 

the  dead. 

The  Missing,  dead  yet  living,  they  who  live  no  more, 
and  never  died: 

How  these  their  widows  day  by  day  must  bear  a  grief 
unsatisfied! 

Not  theirs  a  great  Physician's  balm,  not  theirs  to  linger 
by  a  cross, 

Not  theirs  the  years  of  sorrow's  calm,  the  blessed  certi- 
tude of  loss. 

Still  they  must  wonder  if  the  wood  or  waters  claimed 

him,  if  the  tree 
It  was  that  made  their  widowhood — or  if  unwidowed 

they  may  be. 

151 


THE  WIDOWHOOD  OF  DOUBT 

So  many  go  the  woodland  trail;  the  curtains  close 

about  them;  then 
There  comes  a  rumor  or  a  tale;  but  they,  they  come 

not  forth  again. 

Then  the  long  widowhood  of  doubt :  Perhaps  to-night 

he  will  return; 
From  heart  and  window  shining  out  the   woman's 

sainted  candles  burn — 
Each  day  a  disappointment,  each  new  hour  a  hope,  a 

hope  to  dim, 
A  wish  that  constant  ray  would  reach  around  the 

world  in  search  of  him. 

Ah,  weedless  widows,  widowed,  wed  to  years  of  such 
uncertainty, 

Wan  widows  of  the  living  dead,  earth's  saddest  mourn- 
ers, such  are  ye. 

If  they  be  dead  your  candles  seek,  God  give  you  proof 
and  comfort,  too; 

But,  if  they  live  and  do  not  speak,  God  punish  them 
and  pity  you. 


152 


RETIRED 

Yes,  I've  made  a  little  stake 

In  the  lumber  game ; 
Yes,  I've  been  a  lucky  jake, 
Managed  in  my  life  to  make 

Somethin'  from  the  same — 

Have  a  mill  that's  mine, 
Have  some  money  laid  away, 
Saved  ag'inst  a  rainy  day, 

Own  a  jag  of  pine ; 
Fuss  around  the  puttin'  green, 
Travel  in  a  limousine 

With  a  colored  shofer, 
Have  a  little  cash  to  give, 
Have  a  little  time  to  live — 

Somethin'  of  a  loafer. 

Yep,  I  am  the  sort  of  gink 

People  like  to  knock, 
People  who  appear  to  think 
That  a  fellah  found  his  chink 
Layin'  on  a  rock. 

153 


RETIRED 

If  I  have  a  bit, 
Not  a  dollar  that  I  own 
But  I  paid  in  flesh  an*  bone 

For  the  whole  of  it. 
An',  I  guess,  a  lot  of  men 
People  slander  now  an*  then 

Got  it  on  the  level, 
Made  the  money  they  possess 
Like  the  lumberman,  I  guess, 

Workin'  like  the  devil. 

Life  it  wasn't  always  so — 

Comfort  an*  content ; 
There  was  days  not  long  ago, 
There  was  days  I  didn't  know 

Where  to  raise  a  cent — 

Figgered,  borrowed,  saved, 
Looked  for  twenty  years  ahead, 
Minded  not  what  others  said, 

Studied,  suffered,  slaved; 
Cruised  the  timber  that  was  new 
People  said  would  never  do, 

Learnt  alone  to  ramble ; 
Staked  the  little  all  I  had, 
Ventured  when  the  times  was  bad, 

Bought  upon  a  gamble ; 

154 


RETIRED 

Walked  the  wilderness  by  day, 

Worried  in  the  night ; 
With  a  timid  bank  to  pay, 
Learnt  the  one  an*  only  way 

Was  to  work  an*  fight. 

Folks  who  think  the  pine 
An*  the  money  easy  come, 
I  will  gladly  tell  you  some 

Ways  I  gethered  mine : 
Worked  a  peavey,  pulled  a  saw, 
Rode  the  river  in  a  thaw 

When  my  legs  was  limber, 
Beat  the  bullies  with  my  fist — 
Life  an*  home  an*  comfort  missed 

For  the  sake  of  timber. 

Then,  at  last,  I  got  a  mill, 
With  a  promise  bought ; 
Lord,  an*  I  remember  still, 
An*  I  guess  I  always  will, 
Troubles  that  it  brought : 
Somethin'  breakin'  loose, 
Crackin'  saws  an1  fallin'  steam — 
Everything  I  had  would  seem 

Coin*  to  the  deuce. 
Then  the  price  would  fade  away 
An'  the  lumber  piles  would  lay 

155 


RETIRED 

Waitin*  for  a  taker; 
Stumpage  droppin'  off  the  earth — 
All  the  timber  wasn't  worth 

Fifty  cents  an  acre. 

Yet  it  helped  to  make  a  man, 

All  the  trouble  did ; 
For  to  work  an*  fret  an'  plan 
Is  the  thing  that  makes  the  man 

Out  of  any  kid. 

An'  I'm  glad  the  test 
Come  among  the  snows  an'  thaws 
In  the  wilderness,  because 

It  was  for  the  best. 
For  I  have  a  notion,  too, 
Woods  of  green  an'  skies  of  blue, 

Snowin',  blowin',  rainin', 
Can  not  help  but  make  a  man 
Honest,  decent,  squarer  than 

All  your  city  trainin'. 

It's  a  business  that  is  clean, 

Workin'  in  the  wood ; 
Skies  of  blue  an'  woods  of  green, 
Winter  storm  or  summer  scene, 

They  are  plain  an'  good. 

156 


Worked  a  peavey,  pulled  a  saw,  rode  the  river  in  a  thaw 


RETIRED 

Timber  on  the  hill 
Has  a  flavor  sweet  as  wine, 
An'  the  sawdust  of  the  pine 

In  around  the  mill 
Makes  a  man  as  clean  inside 
As  the  sky  that  stretches  wide 

In  the  brightest  weather. 
God  may  walk  the  city  streets 
But,  when  man  outdoors  He  meets, 

Then  they  walk  together. 

There  folks  look  you  in  the  face ; 

There  a  man's  a  man ; 
There  an  ace  must  be  an  ace, 
For  the  woods  it  ain't  a  place 

For  shenanigan. 

There  is  less  of  law, 
There  is  less  of  preachin'  there, 
But  you  find  a  fellah  square 

In  a  mackinaw. 

Law  or  creed  we  mayn't  know — 
Though  it's  been  a  year  or  so 

Since  we  seen  a  steeple, 
When  we  buy  or  when  we  sell 
Then  we  stack  up  purty  well 

With  your  city  people. 

/ 
157 


RETIRED 

So,  if  somethin'  I  have  made 

For  a  rainy  day, 
If  I've  made  a  lucky  trade, 
By  the  rules  of  Hoyle  I  played 

All  along  the  way. 

If  I  have  a  mill, 
If  I  have  a  jag  of  pine, 
Somethin'  in  the  bank  that's  mine, 

Somethin'  in  the  till, 
If  for  me  the  axes  swing, 
If  for  me  the  pulleys  sing 

An'  the  saw  is  hummin', 
If  I  take  a  little  rest 
When  my  sun  is  in  the  west — 

Boys,  I've  got  it  comin' ! 


158 


THE  RECRUIT'S  REQUEST 

Sing  us  no  song  of  the  stripes  an*  the  stars 

Callin'  us  heroes  an'  such; 
We  are  plumb  sick  of  the  music  of  wars, 
Star  spangled  bannered  too  much. 
Give  us  a  hail 

From  the  tote-road,  the  trail, 
Up  where  the  water's  alive; 
Give  us  Paul  Bunyan,  or  some  such  a  tale — 
Sing  us  a  song  of  the  drive ! 

We  aren't  specially  hymnin'  our  hate, 

We  aren't  damnin'  the  Hun. 
Let  us  f  orgit  it,  a  while  any  rate, 
Nix  on  the  sword  an'  the  gun. 
Give  us  a  song 
As  we're  marchin'  along, 
Somethin'  to  lighten  the  tramp; 
Give  us  a  tune  on  the  old  dinner-gong — 
Sing  us  a  song  of  the  camp! 

When  we  go  up  to  the  guns  of  the  foe, 

Where  there  is  dyin'  to  do, 
Some  other  song  we  will  warble,  I  know, 

Never  the  red,  white  an'  blue — 

159 


THE  RECRUIT'S  REQUEST 

Chokin'  a  tear 

For  some  girl  who  is  dear 
Over  the  hill  an*  the  foam, 
We  will  be  lookin'  right  back  over  here. 
Singin'  some  ditty  of  home. 


160 


THE  WEDDING 

I've  heard  of  your  wonderful  weddin', 

My  faraway,  favorite  niece ; 
I've  read  ev'ry  newspaper  headin* 

An'  ev'ry  "Society"  piece. 
I'm  glad  that  your  weddin'  was  quiet, 

An'  simple  in  garb  an'  in  gown, 
An'  no  matrimonial  riot 

Upsettin'  the  whole  of  the  town. 

So  many  there  are  that  are  noisy, 

With  hunderds  to  cackle  an'  stare, 
Reported  from  Boston  to  Boise, 

With  lists  of  the  notables  there — 
A  church  that  is  crowded  with  people, 

A  street  that  is  busy  with  din, 
A  fire-alarm  rung  from  the  steeple 

To  gether  the  curious  in. 

But  yours  it  was  quiet  an*  simple, 

With  only  your  friends  an'  your  folks, 

Who  laffed  at  your  daintiest  dimple 
An*  smiled  at  the  minister's  jokes. 

161 


THE  WEDDING 

Their  greetin'  was  honest  an*  hearty, 
The  neighbors  who  come  to  the  door, 

A  sort  of  a  family  party 
Without  any  riot  an*  roar. 

I  always  have  thought  gittin'  married 

Was  rather  a  personal  thing ; 
For  why  should  a  couple  be  harried — 

Two  turtle-doves  just  on  the  wing — 
By  crowdin'  an*  talkin'  an*  shoutin', 

An*  hunderds  to  gossip  an'  sneer? 
A  weddin's  no  picnic  or  outin', 

As  you  will  discover,  my  dear. 

If  I  had  the  act  to  do  over 

(I  speak  as  a  fellah  outdoors 
Who  likes  to  wade  meadows  of  clover 

An*  camp  by  their  musical  shores), 
I  wouldn't  have  that  for  a  minute, 

When  I  an'  the  girl  were  made  one ; 
I'd  have  just  the  song  of  a  linnet, 

I'd  have  just  the  light  of  the  sun. 

I  wouldn't  care  much  if  the  others 
Should  know  I  got  married  or  not; 

I'd  just  want  the  fathers  an'  mothers 
When  hitched  double-harness  I  got. 

162 


THE  WEDDING 

I'd  just  want  a  preacher  who's  pleasant, 
I'd  just  want  a  day  that  is  fair; 

I  wouldn't  care  much  who  was  present 
As  long  as  the  lady  was  there. 

The  throwin'  of  rice  I  don't  care  for, 

I  have  some  old  shoes  of  my  own ; 
I  wonder  what  people  are  there  for 

An'  why  all  the  truck  should  be  thrown  ? 
The  rice  an'  the  shoes  an'  the  kisses 

May  add  to  the  holiday  fuss, 
But  they  wouldn't  please  me  an'  the  missus 

By  makin'  a  target  of  us. 

An*  no  one  would  follow  the  custom 

Of  kissin'  the  lady  I  chose; 
If  any  one  tried  it,  I'd  bust  him 

Right  there  on  the  spot  on  the  nose. 
If  all  of  these  holiday  hooters 

Went  kissin'  the  lady  I  win, 
I'd  unlimber  a  pair  of  six-shooters 

An*  the  party  would  really  begin. 


163 


AFTERWARD 

Well  you  remember  where  it  was  we  met : 

A  cabin  in  a  valley  by  a  stream ; 
I  can  not  think  you  could  so  soon  forget — 
That  I  alone  remember  and  regret, 

And  dream. 

I  was  a  man  of  labor  in  the  land 

To  which  you  came  upon  a  holiday ; 
I  was  a  man  of  labor,  ax  in  hand, 
And  you  a  Summer  pilgrim,  laughing  and 
Away. 

I  loved  the  woodland  ways  no  less  than  you, 

Than  you  who  spoke  of  them  in  rhapsodies — 
Perhaps  their  greater  beauties  better  knew 
And  deeper  felt  the  music  singing  through 
The  trees. 

I  wonder  if  it  always  shall  be  so — 

If  you  look  laughing  to  that  year  again, 
Recall  a  pleasant  Summer  with  a  glow, 
While  I  remain,  remember,  only  know 
Its  pain? 

164 


THE  BAD  MAN 

There  was  a  gink 

Blew  into  camp 
Not  very  long  ago 

Who'd  make  you  think 

He  had  a  lamp 
Like  no  one  here  below. 
He  bragged  about 

The  fights  he  had, 
He  built  up  quite  a  rep ; 
Without  a  doubt 

We  thought  him  bad, 
A  party  full  of  pep. 

His  laigs,  his  arms, 

He  said  were  swell, 
His  uppercut  a  peach ; 
His  other  charms 

He  used  to  tell— 
His  footwork  an*  his  reach. 
He  bullied  us, 

I  must  confess ; 

165 


THE  BAD  MAN 

We  let  him  have  his  way ; 
An*  not  a  cuss 

But  answered  yes, 
Whatever  he  would  sav. 

The  matter  might 

Have  gone  along 
The  way  that  it  had  been, 
But  Monday  night, 

When  feelin'  strong, 
He  sort  of  sauntered  in 
An*  made  a  crack 

If  any  hick 

Should  give  him  any  jaw 
He'd  beat  him  black, 
For  he  could  lick 
The  whole  of  Arkansaw. 

I  needn't  state 

The  details  now 
Or  which  one  was  the  one 
That  couldn't  wait, 

But,  anyhow, 
The  jamboree  begun. 
The  gang  an'  me 

Commenced  to  maul 

166 


THE  BAD  MAN 

An'  pound  the  geezer  good. 
He  said  that  he 

Could  lick  us  all — 
An',  darn  the  luck,  he  could ! 


167 


A  LOOK  BACK 

You  have  packed  up  your  duffle  and  put  out  your  fire, 
There  is  nothing  ahead  but  the  trail, 

But  the  trail  that  leads  up  to  the  hill  you  desire — 
You  will  come  nevermore  to  the  vale. 

'Twas  a  shelter  from  storm  and  a  home  for  the  night, 
'Twas  a  place  for  a  fire  and  a  snack ; 

You  are  through  with  it  now,  you  are  off  with  the 

light- 
But  you  stop  and  you  take  a  look  back. 

'Twas  a  spot  for  a  camp  such  as  seldom  you  find, 

With  a  slope  that  would  drain  it  of  wet ; 
There  was  green  grass  in   front,  there  was  timber 
behind, 

And  the  deadwood  was  easy  to  get. 
Twas  a  bed  and  a  roof  for  the  wandering  one, 

'Twas  a  rest  and  a  refuge  for  Jack ; 
Now  you're  off  to  the  east  and  you're  up  with  the  sun — 

But  you  stop  and  you  take  a  look  back. 

168 


A  LOOK  BACK 

And  this  life  is  just  that  from  beginning  to  end 

It's  a  camp,  and  a  hike,  and  a  camp. 
It  is  greeting  a  stranger,  farewell  to  a  friend, 

Ev'ry  morning  new  timber  to  tramp. 
For  we  can  not  remain  and  we  can  not  return, 

We  must  follow  old  Time  in  his  track ; 
But  the  campnres  of  old  in  our  memory  burn — 

And  we  stop  and  we  take  a  look  back. 


169 


THE  CRUISE 

When  all  the  years  are  but  a  year 

Fast  drawing  to  a  close, 
And  I  am  through  with  cruising  here 

Forever,  I  suppose, 
Then  upward  to  the  final  cross 

The  last  hill  I  shall  climb 
And  stand  before  the  mighty  Boss 

Who  figures  up  our  time. 

He  gave  me  once  a  world  to  cruise, 

He  staked  me  to  a  life, 
And  left  me  my  own  way  to  choose, 

A  path  of  peace  or  strife. 
Across  the  sky  He  spread  His  stars, 

The  sun  to  travel  by, 
His  great  unchanging  calendars 

For  pilgrims  such  as  I. 

But  there  are  things  He  never  knew 
In  this  great  world  of  His : 

The  heavens  are  not  always  blue — 
The  hurricane  there  is, 

170 


THE  CRUISE 

And  nights  without  a  star  to  shine 
There  are,  and  sudden  snares, 

And  tangled  ways,  and  trailing  vines, 
To  take  men  unawares. 

And,  if  He  knew  it  all  the  while, 

That  things  like  these  are  here, 
The  pitfall  in  the  pleasant  mile, 

The  gray  skies  with  the  clear, 
He  knows  that  I  for  every  rose 

Was  punished  with  a  thorn, 
For  every  passion  red  He  knows 

Some  burden  I  have  borne. 

I  did  not  make  a  woman's  eyes, 

I  did  not  make  the  brew, 
I  did  not  make  the  sweetest  lies 

Man  ever  listened  to, 
I  did  not  make  the  greed  of  gold, 

And  all  of  human  ills — 
When  I  was  young  these  things  were  old 

As  His  eternal  hills. 

I  think  He  takes  men  in  His  hand, 

I  and  all  mortal  men, 
I  think  that  He  can  understand 

And  balance  things  again, 

171 


THE  CRUISE 

I  think  He  weighs  a  man  beside 
The  sort  of  chance  he  had, 

I  think  He  knows  His  world  is  wide, 
A  good  world  and  a  bad. 

I  think  He  knows  it  all  along 

When  figuring  our  time, 
And  scratches  off  the  little  wrong 

The  holy  call  a  crime ; 
I  think  that  when  life's  year  is  past, 

However  feet  may  fail, 
That  He  will  lead  me  home  at  last, 

Although  I  missed  the  trail. 


THE  END 


?5 
35-2.5- 


T-7 


